Composed by Crowheart and SPK

Boy: I was 13...holding Death in my virgin hands…

Crow: I sat wary in the tree wondering if the solitary boy was of the killing kind.

Boy: Stealthing through silent 300 year old Hemlocks...the mocking caws I hear.

Crow: Scanning my beloved territory, I hear the distant shouts of my sons.

Boy: Damn them…I whisper…always...one tree ahead of me...and when I level the bead...they flap to new safe perches...

Crow: The man child is still and annoyed

Boy: They hopmeander through the trees warning the squirrels, partridges and quail along the way...and I with an empty game bag...

Crow: I am mesmerized by the shiny stick he holds…

Crow: The forest tells me, It is Death...

Crow: Gilt blued steel