There had once lived a raven,
Whose dark black coat saw wear.
He had grown weary of living,
And lived each day without a care.
Then came a dove, perched nearby,
Feathers white made in heaven.
A stark contrast to the dark'ning sky,
And even more so to the raven.
"O' raven, raven, but why do you strain?"
Cooed the dove; voice like melted honey.
And with narry a hint of his usual disdain,
Raven gagged "I'm making home on this tree".
The dove watched and pitied the raven,
For trying and failing was he,
"O' hither. I shall aid you, raven,"
And aid the raven did she.
She pecked twigs, and pulled twine together,
A mass of sticks, and leaves, and grass.
The raven had simply twigs to gather,
Suffice to say it was a simple task.
Soon it was finished, raven's abode,
The dove left, fluttering away,
The raven stared, he hadn't told,
How grateful he was to her that day.
The smitten raven vowed to himself,
"One day the dove I shall woo,"
"But foremost is to rid myself,
Of these feathers black I rue."
So the raven worked, and labored and toiled,
And improved himself with time,
So sure was he his plan couldn't be foiled,
Certainly not when he 'comes sublime.
And lo' and thus, the raven whitened,
Its black feathers now shades of white.
With a worn coat now thick and brightened,
His goal to woo the dove was in sight.
But alas and alack for the raven,
The dove had found its mate;
Another dove with feathers of heaven,
The raven was simply too late.
He cried and wept in silent sorrow,
For his efforts were for naught,
His grieving followed each morrow,
For how long, time had forgot.
And till this day, there lives a raven,
Whose shady white coat saw wear,
He has grown weary of love and living,
And lives each day with little care.
-Event construed by K.C-
