A Talking Crow And A Drunken Sailor - Poem by Pedro Cescon
Crow, crow, crow, crow...
As if repeating own name,
It's what been saying the crow,
Every morning saying the same...
While the life start its flow,
Among the busy ways of the port,
'Sailor', 'sailor', was saying the crow
To a drunk sailor of some sort,
'Sheesh, hush ye, madly beast...'
Said the drunk, bottle in hands...
'M'eyes ain't becomin' ye' feast'...
'I wonder where our friendship stands'
'Could be warded a thanks, at least...'
Gently said the crow, being of the strands
A glance was cast,
Followed by mannerless gruff,
Peering at the beautiful crest,
Of what man thought was a bluff,
A talking crow, gentleman at best,
So strange, though...
Drink must've been hard to digest...
'What fer should'a' be thankin'? '
Said the sailor, confused...
'You must certainly be pranking, '
Said a crow rather amused...
'Being a victim of such a planking...
You could end up being abused, '
'Near you they could be flanking,
Prickling crabs to get you bruised, '
'And dangers of unspoken ranking,
That could get you bemused...'
'STOP IT YE DAMNED CROW! '
Shouted the astonished man,
'Please ye stop, stop ye row,
Damned be the blabber ye sang'
'Rather sad, my dazzled friend.,
Was just trying to keep your health, '
'You see, I'm used to attend,
Those who lack the wealth, '
But suddenly the man got tired
And started rolling his rant,
And then act as his mind required,
Before it could turn to faint
'Don't kno' why am wastin' ma'time,
This isn' possibly real, '
'A crow tha'can speak in rime,
Arh, this be too much o' a deal'
'Blarh, be a work o' evil,
The ways o' this monstrosity'
'An' fer tha' I rise an upheaval,
To grow fer ye the animosity'
'An' then I'll get medieval
And show no generosity...'
This was all what sailor did shout,
Between grimaces and signals quite ugly,
And that brought the crow to a halt,
It was bearing a face quite smugly,
And there both did stand,
Looking each other high-low,
Sailor barefooted on sand,
And high in the lamp-post the crow
Till crow decided to hand,
An answer to that strangest show,
And, in most fashioned crow's brand,
Crow did say: 'Crow, Crow... Crow, Crow'
The sailor calmed down,
And cursed about his drink,
And then wore ugly frown,
Of alcohol he had the stink,
Then away his bottle was thrown,
And he went off, trying to think,
That in alcohol he had drown,
And not in madness he did sink,
And while casting at man a peek,
Crow started with its resign:
'My faith in them is growing bleak,
They seem to fail in design, '
'For sometimes they can act freak,
Without even drinking wine, '
'They seem to call it all a geek,
For everything they can't define'
'Just see how this man is weak,
For if he did but change his line'
'He would see that wine in his beak
Didn't relate with words in mine'
And flew off, searching for someone else...
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