Crows, wipe the blood off the end of your claws
Said the vulture, lets gather like storms
For the war, for the war

Crows, as the night turns its skin into coal
Dark as corpses but cluttered with gold
They will label you thieves, wolves, and whores, but

You are nothing less than angels
You are nothing less than angels
You are nothing less than angels
You are nothing less than angels
Cast down and covered in black

Ain’t this the bloodiest mess in the world?
Said the virgin, a torn little girl
Boy, you went and made a sweet wreck of my soul
And I’ve already forgiven you

And blood was running down her dress
In streams, into her hands where she was stitching
On the flesh he’d left in sections
On the carpet near a bed that
Never slept while you was sleeping
In her clothes that he had laid with
On the floor with all his fingers
Crossed, in hoping that that distance wouldn’t grow

But how it grew, and how it hurt
And how it hallowed every memory he’d
Never felt was threatened by a thing the world could
Conjure up to kill them
Oh, but he let it kill them
What a bunch of fools we lovers are

And now she’s smiling
With herself put back together
Just a shadow of the past before the war, all sewn together
Like a city sick from
Storms and sick of waiting for a
God to call the floods out of her home

What a bunch of fools we lovers are, we lovers are
When tempted by the taste of flesh

"My boy, you are nothing more
Than a thief and a whore in a suit of the finest of armor"
Laughed the vulture, laughed the vulture
"Pathetic little child, I am embarrassed for you"