Memories Of The Silver Back Crow

The voice of a bird that I used to know
In fancy I hear the loud cawing of the silver back crow
in the fading twilight on a sycamore tree
Our past seems to follow us would you not agree?

In the higher fields in the wood by the hill
The weaker young lambs the black and gray bird do kill
No mercy to them the sheep farmers do show
They do hate the sight of the black and gray crow.

In rural areas classified as a pest
To rid the landscape of them the farmers try their best
But generations of farmers have come and have gone
And despite persecution the gray crows live on.

In the fading twilight just after sundown
In the high mountain field overlooking the town
In fancy the loud cawing of the silver back crow I do hear
The memories of what was to me ever near.