ravens, writing desks

inky black quills 
the farmer only reaps
long after she tills
 
and the sun also rises
or so I’ve been told
but honey, it’s dark out 
and it’s getting cold
 
writing desks, ravens
oh, where is lenore?
the ground will soon thaw
she will melt from the core
 
bread and circuses 
they ate all the cake
while the farmer pulls weeds
with a short handled rake