yon two crows

pennies from heaven, don't make me laugh, here all you'll get, is the pattering rain, or yon two crows up over the hill, looking for winterkill, always at your boots, the mud behind the byre, with its clammy hold, would mock you up a grave, here in the mire of a wrecked sheepfold, and all you'll bring to this, is muscle and grit, persistence, that's just about it, what made you think, there'd be a living in sheep?, eat, work, eat, work and sleep, duck under the eaves, of the bothy, to sit here, caged by rain, somewhere to go conjure, a next move, when i have to think again, the dog lifts his gaze to plead, believes the wizard has a magic stick, leans his weight into my tweed, i give an unholy hand to lick, i take a swig of sheep dip, from my flask, and once again i ask, what made you think, there'd be a living in sheep?, eat, work, eat, work and sleep, they were at this game, two hundred years ago, had thirty ways, of dying young, poor souls, laid to rest in their soggy rows, rain on their holy books, blood and whisky, on the tongue, and no-one watching over anyone, no-one left but your stubborn one, and the crows and rooks, ah, the dying young, well i'm not done, you watch me and i'll watch thee, i can still work for two men, and drink for three, and i raise my flask, to the clearing skies, to you, sweepers, you carrion spies, to scavenge and survive, if you can do it so can i