Ah, my life is woe,
and no matter where i go,
with it flies that crow.

Black of wing, feathered
like a fearsome dream, slathered
with rage, skin leathered

like a viking's shield.
It will not stop, will not yield
and will alltimes wield

a covering cloak,
which of all sensations soak
me with that crow's croak -

deeply most blueblack,
voice parched, like the grave's bleak wrack,
that cuts me no slack

nor admits of light.
Of remorse, shows no requite.
Creature of the night.