A reaper builds a scarecrow
to thrust the beaks yonder,
to spare what's eked to gather,
all through this moody weather.
Every man makes a scarecrow,
in assorted shemes there are;
inside those howls and scowls
is another frail boy, weather-beaten.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
don't fear the reaper.. ..savvy gumption, as per usual. care, Sus.