Row, row, row on row

A blackened field, a murdered crow

Feathers shed the flesh to show

The crime that was was theirs to know.

Row, row, row on row

When bones are white and red leaves go

The dead are buried in the snow

And ghosts will walk where they will go.

Row, row, row on row

When corn is tall and patterned so

The burning moon brings naught but woe - 

A blackened field, a murdered crow.