Once upon a winter dreary, the city council pondered weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of bureaucratic lore,
While they nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a flapping,
As of some birds freely crapping, crapping all over Rochester.
"'Tis some sparrows," they muttered, "crapping all over Rochester-
Only this, and nothing more."
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each crow murder member wrought its feces upon Rochester.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrow
An umbrella or a large sombrero; protection from the splattering arrows -
For to spare me from the ravens' rain of fecal terror,
To safely travel door to door.
And the silken, mad uncertain rustling of each feathered urchin
Thrilled folks - filled folks with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that hence, to still the beating of their hearts, they stood repeating
"'Tis city dwellers entreating action from the council chamber door -
Some city dwellers entreating action from the council chamber door; -
Deal with the crows! Declare war!"
Surprisingly the council's brains grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
"Sirs," said they, "and Madams, truly your forgiveness we implore;
But the fact is we were napping, and so gently the crows came flapping,
And so gradually came their crapping, crapping all over Rochester,
That we scarce knew of the problem - from beyond our chamber door; -
But now we see and we deplore."
And so the council started thinking, with results suggesting heavy drinking;
To consider killing crows was something none had dreamed before;
"The crows' routine must be broken! Use hawks and falcons!" What were they smokin'?
The plan, it failed, and the only words there spoken was the whispered phrase, "Spend more."
This they whispered, so the city's taxpayers couldn't hear the phrase "Spend more."
If they'd heard they would have swore.
Back into the chamber turning, the council members' cheeks were burning.
Once again they heard the flapping somewhat louder than before.
"Surely," said they, "surely this can't be happening; all this wanton raven crappening.
Let's try something different; there are more options to explore -
Let's try trapping them, and release them where they're not our problem any more."
The council's brain cells number four.
"Just kill the crows!" some people demand. "Shoot them! Drug them! Make a stand!
Hire crow assassins, any creep will do!" "We can't kill the ravens," others say. "Crows are people, too!"
And thus the council's caught in twain, and no one has a working brain.
Accumulates the fecal gore, as thousands of ravens quoth:
"Here's some more."
Come spring the ravens will likely depart and briefly halt their fecal art,
They won't torment Mayo Clinic patients, or strafe paint the $300k bus stations.
But come winter's inevitable return, the crows will once again be a concern,
And the council will ask, "When will the feces no longer pour?" And the ravens answer: