A Man Made Of Straw Poem by sylvia spencer

When I was young I knew a man made of straw, but never once
did he enter my street door.
As much as I wanted him too mother would say 'NO' because he was
only a stuffed Scarecrow
He lived in a field just down the lane and the way he was treated was
such a shame.
He stood in that field through rain and shine with no way of knowing
the day or the time.
When the sun came out there was a smile on his face but when it rained
he looked a total disgrace.
His head would bow and his hat would fall, it never fitted him anyhow
it was much to small.
Over the field I would run and place it back on his head, then when I
got home Mother always saw red.
My Muddy boots she would make me clean because she knew
exactly where I had been.
For years that Scarecrow stood in that field watching and waiting
for the harvest to yield.
As I grew older I began to understand that this poor old Scarecrow
was doing something grand.
He kept the crows from stealing the seeds that grew into the harvest
for the farmers needs.