Now work Crow,
Or I'll clip your wings.
(Please sir spare my plumage)
None more doth this quarry sings.
(its voice is cold and dead)
Do as told,
And quick to quill.
(Or keyboard as it be)
Some may have some blood to spill.
(Like ink from the tip of my pen)
And next time plagarism finds thee,
Rap, rap, rapping at my door.
(I gave thee credit, punish not I)
Face and head will find the floor.
(shows /your/ personality)
So quick young birdie,
Lest I take thee,
To the place where none can see.
(Not that, I beg you...deep into night...I shall write) |
Submission Name: Clipped Wings
