Chimney Crow
On the chimney, there sits a lonely crow,
Calls to his friends, his mate, we do not know.
Pitch as black, opposite of pure white snow.
He calls, but eventually he must go.
Not to worry, or fret, or fear,
His friends are gone, but still are near,
Just out gathering seeds my dear.
But to the crow, that was not clear.
>ð|~@-@~|ð<
teddwebb 