Crows, five months after 9.11 br br Bad press, that’s what we got, bad press, br Caught by our color, black we are, caught caught, br Betrayed by our feathers’ murky, inky gloss… br So black we are! Bad press! Bad press! br Those beady eyes and beaks of ruffled br Mockingbirds and tawdry jays, br With fickle mates and seasonal calls br Have no respect for us, their betters! br Claws, claws and jabbing beaks good only for br Small grain and grubs, br But we, we love for life, true love like doves, br We soar in flight like hawks like hawks, br We fly in packs like running wolves, br We sit for Pow wows like our Northern worshippers, br Yet stoned we are, and cursed and blamed; br Raucous they call us, br Omens, famine, death… Unfair! Unfair! br You clothed ones down below! br Look up, behold! br We mighty ones! Our pitchy hue br Encloses stout hearts, br Long memories, so when you come with beaks and sticks br We rise, majestic, noblesse oblige - br With cause, with cause. br br 5.2.