Magpies** Poem by Neil Young

You hear them overhead,
Their wild machine gun fire
As mad as French toccatas.

We name them for ourselves,
And count them, yet they have
No care for superstition.

Landed, they walk in hops.
Paranoid, they flee
When someone stops to watch.

To them one man means sorrow,
Two men, grief; each count
A rattled abacus.

Today he’s perched alone,
Clicks like a key turned toy
Unwinding fast with fury.

Tell me, do you see him?
Cancel portent sorrow.
Feed my superstition.