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Cassius Crow
Cassius Crow
Cassius Crow was a big old bird
with shiny feathers, long and black.
his family members, near and dear
jawed at each other - clackity clack.
Cassius' flock nested in a wood
full of pine from old Monterey
and as far as old Cassius knew
they'd dwelt there forever and a day.
He and his kin loved to launch
and mount the unbounded sky,
wheeling and swooping and soaring,
tail chasing in full throated cry.
Up and up they would gaily flap,
climbing the steep ladder of the sky,
then tightly fold their satin wings
and drop like a stone in a dive.
'Round and 'round in the firmament
they would cavort above the sward
while all around the periphery
uncles and cousins stood the guard.
Once a sassy little Jay bird
began reciting verse from Poe,
Cassius snidely croaked his retort,
"You don't know a raven from a crow."
And in the spring when Robin came
Hippity hopping around the flock,
And acting like his poop didn't stink,
Cassius gibed, "Crows don't hop. We walk."
They would gobble up all the grain,
melons and eggs and most the rest,
but their sharp-eyed hunger also claimed
grasshoppers, worms, and lots of pests.
Cassius Crow was a sanguine bird
that always knew the score,
and one word he would never croak
was the ill-fated "Nevermore"
Copyright ©
John Newlin
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