His soul was a fresh piece of bread
Free at first from hate and dread
It was soft and sweet and freshly baked
With a raw sort of purity that cannot be faked
As he got older it began to get dry
Moisture was sucked from it in the tears he'd cry
Yet, however dry was his soul
Atleast he could say that the bread was still whole
But that too changed because soon came a day
There came a black crow and...