Counting Crows of a misty morning Four of them glide past Not their usual buzz Seems they think they’re one with the sky Wearing cammo I almost don’t see them as crows; Hawks maybe. 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!