It's always the crows Desire
To land on a Hydro Wire
To sit and Pose
In a Long black Rows
They sit and do there Squawking
Sounds like a lot of Talking
I wonder what they Talk About?
Maybe which will be there next Route
But when they all take to the Sky
All flying in the Big Blue High
They all shut there Beeks and Flap
Wishing they had a land Map
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Another giggler, Davey. Hey, why not swap 'route' for a word which rhymes fully with 'about'? Kindly, Gina. XXX.