In the fields, they were pecking;
We shot the crows, bodies slack
In the dirt, their wings settle.
We strung ‘em up to warn the others.
We shot the crows, bodies slack
To protect the crops, yes,
We strung ‘em up to warn the others;
Birds, too, have memory. I do nothing—
Roll corncobs in butter, pass the salt.
My defenses strangled—yes?
About the tattooed crow, I say nothing.
Birds, too, have memory. I do nothing—
We protect the crops because, yes,
Nothing about hunger is passive.
Birds, too, have memory. I do nothing—
Golden tassels bend in the breeze.
Nothing about hunger is passive.
In the fields, they were pecking;
Golden tassels bend only in the breeze.
In the dirt, the wings settle.
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