Poor, Poor Lenore

Poor, poor Lenore carried off by crows
As she wandered alone where the red oaks grow
Black, black were their beaks twisted in her hair
And black were their wings whipping up through the air
Fly, fly into the breeze, Lenore and the crows
To the top of a dead tree where the heartbroken go
Love, she fell in love with the grave digger's son
Who was thin as the bow of his black violin
Kiss, he kissed so hard her mouth filled with blood
Then he left her to cry where the red oaks die