Death, like a crow's wings, is black. Black as night and black as the cat. The cat that lurks as the full moon rises And brings forth ghastly surprises Hate, like the vampire's blood, is red. As red as the sun rising above our heads. The sun rises in morning, but what of night? It gets dark and there's no room for light. Death can creep up on you. Just like hate will sometimes do. Does that make us crazy? I don't know, maybe...