He wrote all day he wrote the night away.
Ti'll birches creak
And tears ran down his lonesome cheeks
Why this man never left?
Never kept his house kept
Never even laid to rest
Though he tried his very best
To write in which people would read
But they only ever were displeased
I watched him as he cried by day and wrote by night
Desperate for another soul to hear his plight
He wrote and wrote, on and on
Each word pealing back his soul
His hair and mind getting gray and old
Until one day he stopped
He stopped to rest his gray old head
They laid him gently in his bed
He never woke from that darling slumber
He never did pick up his pen to write again
No one mourned this simple man
Not his family nor his friends
Though I may be a simple crow, this old man is all I know.