Pearly Prince: The Song of Crow, a poem by Lord Carville
Ever since I came across the spirit of a dead crow in one of my rambles in the countryside of my youth, the crow has been my totem animal and spiritual guide.
Who nicked the ruby gem of an Irish king?
Lone-Crow, who views the value not the price,
And pinched with snatch, hid beneath the darkened wing...
Who perched upon a dragons' nest yet thrice?
Subtle stealth of 'Crook-Claw': thefts his thing.
'Pick-a-Lock' of quick tricks, a well turned vice,
Virtue veiled, Master Villain of chance and gain.
Who guards the jewels and crown in Royal guise?
Good and bad to Mr. Crow are all the same,
Then shadow flies the crooked night with prize...
Hallowed booty bird of the Death Harvest Dame.
But...
Who loves Sir Jack, criminal with coal-hard eyes?
That petty-pecks at chaos, as if a silly game;
Pearly Lord, swift-trickster of diverse skies
He shuns good innocence and seeks Satan's flame
With a 'burial-caw' that duets the funerary cry!
And...
Where the hidden, twisted hoard of stolen gold...
Of ill-gotten wealth?
Perhaps,
Beneath the dream bed of Crow the Bold,
And...
With that I bid you good health.
All Rights Reserved & Copyright January 2008 David John Drew
