The Black Crow Cawing Repeatedly

The black crow perched on the boughs Crowing, Crowing and speaking many a tongue of its own, Very often simply, But sometimes in a strange tuning of its own, Repeatedly, The harshness is gone As its tonal impact casting an impact, It is twisting and turning the jazz Into the blues With a change in throat, Change in voice And is repeatedly cawing As with a cliché, The voice appearing to be a little bit musical, Perhaps hinting it, Suggesting so The arrival of a guest Who in turn may be wanted or unwanted, Whose arrival awaited eagerly Or seen with a frown. The black crow cawing, cawing repeatedly, Perhaps some guest is coming, There lies the possibility Of an arrival, Which the bird telling of Through its crowing, A guest is about to come to And his arrival await you, Lo, he is seen there, With a cloth bundle, Embarking upon the bank of the river And seen from the hamlet homes, The traditional guest is coming While on the other hand ha may be a city man With an attaché into the hands of his, Taking off his leather shoes To cross over the dusty ways And the sands to cover up!