The Crow

Don't count the corns, 
On an old crows foot, 
They may be worn, 
Appear like soot, 
His eyes are beady, 
His mouth can't speak, 
Instead of lips, 
He has a beak, 
Instead of arms, 
He has tattered feathers, 
They still protect him, 
From Britain's weather, 
You may certainly look, 
And prod & laugh, 
He has not stature 
Like a giraffe, 
He does not prowl, 
With Lions grace, 
He may not have 
A handsome face, 
But when times are tough 
And times are rough, 
When things will fall 
And turn to duff, 
When all the world 
Has passed him by, 
You'll see him soaring, 
In an open sky.

Written by Otatade Iseghohi Okojie