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The Crows
The crow calls
To those who came
Who have the balls
To get it done
His wings, they spread
And he will sore
Until we're dead
We are no more
A shrilling sound
Comes from my breast
And will be found
A hole in my chest
The crow will go
Deep inisde
Into the hole
There deep, he'll hide
Others will come
And eat my flesh
Until I am one
With the rotting mesh
Onward they'll fly
And spread desease
And they'll go by
Like a passing brease
