You don’t have to wait till I’m dead,
My feet are cold, my hands feel like lead,
I’m as good living as I am dead,
I’ve lost my love, I’ve lost my head.

I’m another envelope poet on his feet,
A vagabond you’ll never have to meet,
A shadow at the dark end of the street,
Decaying in the desperate desert heat, just take a seat, I can’t repeat this heartbeat

Crows, Pick my bones
Crows, Pick my bones
When I’m down, when I’m alone, when I’m losing everything I’ve ever known,
When the love I knew is the love that’s old and the blood I’ve bled is dark and cold.
Crows, Pick my bones

Lovers never win, lovers never lose, love is never.
Kids will kick and scream to the tv screen forever, forever.
Go and live your life, go and be somebody’s strife, wherever.
The things I know will linger slow, sittin’ low to ebb and flow, whatever.

Crows, Pick my bones
Crows, Pick my bones
When I’m down, when I’m alone, when I’m losing everything I’ve ever known,
When the love I knew is the love that’s old and the blood I’ve bled is dark and cold.
Crows, Pick my bones
Crows, crows, pick my bones


Crows

Live in Auckland, New Zealand. Have been writing and recording music for the last eight years or so.

Enjoy listening to fresh new sounds and dusty old forgotten treasures. 

Claim to the title of a vagabond by trade but have more similarities to a spent rag.

Work for the man and busk when I can.

-Leroy-Brown-

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