The Crest

A blooming field of grass in a shire
Holds a cabin or two
With a white wash picket
And a family playing cricket
In through the doors
Sits a raven above the mantle
On the far side of the midroom
Just above a crackling flame.
Dazzled in emerald
With a crown of gold
An ever watchful eye
From the parents, so old
Sitting in their leather seats
Made for King and Queen
Atop fresh wooden floors
Waxed all too clean
They wear the same raven
A ravenous team
With wings spread shoulder to shoulder
And beak perched to the sky
The family carries on the tradition
Wielding Death's ever watchful eye.