The crow sat on the thin, dry branch, lonely, morose, listless, waiting
For the pain to subside, for someone to see him for who he was, without hating
Every day he would sit at the same spot, from dawn till late at night
But they would come, they would look at him, and be repulsed at his mere sight

For you see, dear readers, the crow was not just ‘regular crow’ ugly, but worse
His body was covered with pus-filled wounds, all due to a wicked witch’s curse
He had been a handsome prince once, though you would not believe it if you saw him now
And had spurned the advances of the witch, going as far as to call her a fat cow

Now hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, this much we all know
But a scorned witch is even more dangerous, don’t say later that I didn’t tell you so
She cursed him to turn into the creature whose very sight filled him with contempt
So that he knew how it felt to be treated with disgust, and to be spurned at every attempt

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