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.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.