Aunt Fanny was wrong, when she sang me a song,
Then she beckoned me forth to the fold.
I sat on her nighty, she cradled me tightly,
Then told me a story of old.

“Young child” she declared with a snort and a stare,
“There are things that I feel you should know.”
So she sat there with ease and she made me believe,
That my father was some sort of crow!

[On my father’s return]

“My child what is up?” he choked with a cluck.
“My darling you’re looking so blue!”
“You’re a CROW!” I declared, then he stood and he stared,
And off through the window he flew.

© Deborah Gordon 2007