Crows, wipe the blood off the end of your claws Said the vulture, lets gather like storms For the war, for the war Crows, as the night turns its skin into coal Dark as corpses but cluttered with gold They will label you thieves, wolves, and who*es, but You are nothing less than angels You are nothing less than angels You are nothing less than angels You are nothing less than angels Cast down and covered in black Ain't this the bloodiest mess in the world? Said the virgin, a torn little girl Boy, you went and made a sweet wreck of my soul And I've already forgiven you And blood was running down her dress In streams, into her hands where she was stitching On the flesh he'd left in sections On the carpet near a bed that Never slept while you was sleeping In her clothes that he had laid with On the floor with all his fingers Crossed, in hoping that that distance wouldn't grow But how it grew, and how it hurt And how it hallowed every memory he'd Never felt was threatened by a thing the world could Conjure up to k** them Oh, but he let it k** them What a bunch of fools we lovers are And now she's smiling With herself put back together Just a shadow of the past before the war, all sewn together Like a city sick from Storms and sick of waiting for a God to call the floods out of her home What a bunch of fools we lovers are, we lovers are When tempted by the taste of flesh "My boy, you are nothing more Than a thief and a who*e in a suit of the finest of armor" Laughed the vulture, laughed the vulture "Pathetic little child, I am embarra**ed for you"