Never was there a more perfect bird,
whose actions never seem too absurd.
Ebony wings and cock of the head,
a feathered friend who migrates the dead.
A sentry of sorts, the guiding way,
ushering corpses so they can't stay.
How fitting a graveyard be his home,
with plenty of food he never roam.
Each life that passes must pay a toll,
the debt to be paid must be a soul.
To sustain his own life he must feed,
eating the dead is a nasty deed.
From high in his perch he can see all,
making sure there's no delay, no stall.
The flow of bodies must be steady,
for any uproar he is ready.
No one to trespass upon his land,
but ever ready to take a stand.
The raven will fight 'til he is gone,
the grim reaper but a mighty pawn.
He never stays dead for very long,
his body revived through raven song.
In his small murder he is the lead,
assisting the gone who are in need.