Counting Crows of a misty morning
Four of them glide past
Not their usual buzz
Seems they think they’re one with the sky
I almost don’t see them as crows;
Hold that, here comes old number five.
In the mist he’s wearing cammo, too
Gliding past without a word
now far off I hear one of the first four
Who's taken a turn, stopped for a cigarette.
Where have they been so early?
Why did they lose number five
Why do they always act like thieves?
Still getting away with murder.
No, that’s what the flock is called.
Who knows what have they been up to at dawn?
Nothing altruistic or wholesome, that’s certain
I depend on them to keep shouting
Ah, here it is, the usual call
Who are they talking about?
Did they ditch number five just for spite?
All here… hear? Murder happens!