A deliberately bad poem (as opposed to my other bad poems).
On the Crow
(by Nathan Lummep)
There’s a bird whose song raises no cheer,
It’s likely to fill the hearer with fear;
With his inky plumes and strutting gait,
He makes people to shudder or hate;
For the crow of sinister form
Gobbles down dead things while they’re still warm.
His ghoulish diet and looks so dark
Make stern death seem even more stark.
Do not loathe the crow! For he
Only plays his role in ecology.
If crows, and maggots, and ants and such
Disdained all slain creatures to touch,
But left them to rot in the sun, then think
How every breeze would start to stink!
So if you meet a crow, kindly greet him.
(I wonder who, when he dies, will eat him?)