No Woe, Crow

Hello, dead crow, cold
On the shoulder of the road.
We know you were slow
To notice the old Toyota
Towing the mower.
Although, we know
Your soul will go
To and fro, over the road
Where the death-blow
Bids you go where
You’ll know woe no more.

While on the way to church one Sunday evening not long ago, I saw a dead crow on the shoulder of the road and I said, “Hello, dead crow, cold on the shoulder of the road”. That seemed like a clever little bit of poetry to me so, when I got home later, I spun it into a fun little challenge. How many long O sounds could I get into one poem and still have it work as a poem? Turns out, the number is a bit higher than I thought when I started writing. How many do you hear when you read this aloud?