(A ways outside the tower and turmoil of towns,)nnIn the quiet color cutting of another splendid sunset...non the spit of wire spun between two telephone pole necks,nsits an awful fevered murder of crows.nItching the dusk with the call that only they can lay low,nAnd so that day they did unwittingly disposenthemselves to the appetite behind all OnMen yet not comprehending their stick in the schemenof the prey-on-prey ballet of ending day...nnthe prey-on-prey ballet of ending daynnThose crowsn(twitching with the omen they've become on earth.)nnseveral thousand thicknin a fit,nof everything but empty.nThose crows sicked, their starving wingsnon choking out the sun fall's sinking pinks...nnSurrounded by the wellwater black of near night and become,nThose crows dove into the quiet of the half sunken in sun.nTo set themselves against the same take-spark that aches in men.ntheir die, their dive, and their direnbecame them...nnand all that barged into the sunset's wellwater pith of a sky seeming what if, we're spit back out to doom and sing as flocks of forks with wing.nAn obvious and ominous earth ode andnThreat to the soaring sordid appetite of man...nnThe sky has always been a complex death of all its hunting things,nnAnd so (cause) So (cause) shall the crownCuts its throat's most awful coughnFrom its heavy metal song