Poor, poor lenore

Poor, poor Lenore carried off by crows as she wandered alone where the red oaks grow. Black, black were their beaks twisted in her hair and black were their wings whipping up through the air. Fly, fly into the breeze, Lenore and the crows, to the top of a dead tree where the heartbroken go.
Love, she fell in love with the grave digger's son who was thin as the bow of his black violin. Kiss, he kissed so hard her mouth filled with blood then he left her to cry where the red oaks die.