Always a hoverer as a black-hearted crow

A dark look is imprinted on the black-crested brow. 

Crowing and growing the raven-crested head

The rooks crow is certainly profoundly dead.

He waits for the signs of Rigor Mortis to set in 

Then the death-pall raises the bar to chip the chips of sin.

Dump the body and run to the edge of doom

Cope in the darkness with a wilderness of gloom.