I'm forever circling over the tree tops
I don't have to flap my wings, I just glide non stop
Just trying to find some place to land
For your clock was stoped, you've ran out of sand
Don't worry no pain I bring
You won't feel a thing
I will feast upon your rotting flesh
It is my very favorite dish
I will gobble it all down even the wiggling maggots
And whatever else there inhabits
I do my circling dance in the sky
Just to let others know that near by
Something must have died, and lays baking in the sun
And I will soon be having fun