Stained fingertips belong to a rambling role, where the worlds masses are taping boarded to their faces, blinded.
My watchful eyes and my board strapped to my chest instead of my face,
It's a day's dark grey, an' the crows somber pecking,
Scratching at the people's messes in the downcast drizzle.
A slow search that provides no avails, and I am lonely all but only sad soft caws of crow sent out in scavengers hope.