Crows, crows.

Sitting in rows.

Pecking at passerbyes with their sharp nose.

Crows crows, flying over the mire.

Eyes so sharp, never set to tire.

Crows, crows.

Cry familiar shrieks.

The calls pulse in your ears

for forwarding weeks.

Crows, crows.

Sitting in rows.

Their cries are ringing

no end or beggining.

Crows, crows.

fly away with the crown

beating their wings as the sun shines down

Birds a'whistle

horses neigh.

Maybe the crows can see another day

Where crows sing, shriek and shout

the sound travels across the mire

They sing like a chior.

So proud

and loud.

Crows, crows.

Crows, crows.