My first three letters, the carrier of ink. I am black and white, waddling on the rink.

Said by a car Said by a goose Said by a clown

My first four are a bird that gathers for a murder. Add the last letter and I am now fit for a king.

I am the hymn of what once was whole, a silent scribe of a vanished soul. I wear the grey of memory’s veil, In death, I speak what life won’t tell. I mark the end, yet still a prize, what am I, from which phoenix rise?

I can be of sound or schock. I can either be calm or come crashing down with a mighty roar. Very rarely I become rogue, and therefore tales of Men, never to return.