In the depths of night
A single crow flies
Its wings flap with endless delight
Something glitters in its beady eyes
Frail is the bird’s might
But in its lack, it holds a prize
For cunning is a form of fight
Whittle down an enemy with lies
Set their crops and stores alight
A crow will steal a foe’s supplies
Before the opponent is filled with spite
So, next time you hear its anguished cries
Pay attention to what’s missing at twilight
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