Cuthbert the Crow

Cuthbert’s black and shiny from bristled beak to toe,

He knows my route of travel, wherever I may go.

When I hear his cawing, growing louder, coming near,

He always measures my distance, whenever I appear.

For in despair that he evokes his ordeal in the past,

He thinks that you’re the farmer about to take a blast.

So don’t stop to say hello and think he’s shy, he’s not,

He’s Cuthbert the wily crow, and he’s not about to be shot.

So please don’t glaze yourself and really think you know,

With his quick acute perception, he’ll take his distance so.

With his rakish eye and the hoarseness of his throat,

His prudent mind won’t understand the coercion you provoke.

When the world is too much with him and he’s feeling rather low,

Chattering, pluming his feathers as I gaze up from below.

He’s not a portent of evil, there’s no need to take a fright,

With eyes shining brightly that betokens sheer delight,  

But it would be remiss of me if I did not share with you,

A noble vision of shimmering feathers of purple, green and blue.