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!