There eleven yard, in fences front.
Trying to open the edged window,
Stammering, woven beaked she frowned
Away across my place.
Painted so white the window is,
Opened bit about a couple
O’inches below for any blow and breeze.
Smart crow knows she is able,
Still, cannot she swish inside.
Look crow and smell;
For the very odor of stale and
Frowsty room you peek has no bell.
But The Hunter’s wicked than
Guile thought you possess.
His rifle, gone off the wall,
Also his hat, also his hunting coat.
Now the prize yonder is your call,
Burst the window like the final bout;
A peacock feather within the urn.
