Crows flee the corn fields
As a rain with thunder comes
The land has been so dry
It weeps for joy, and cries
Parched by the sun, daily
The sky was so blue it bled
Now comes the final yield
The children of earth fed
The humans will eat well
If the crows get wet
It is a minor annoyance
For those who linger
Above the black earth
Of the province
Of the fields of gold
As planted by our lord
