T’was the king of crows,
who cawed at me,

pecking and plucking
my straw furiously,
cause he was curious to see
what would become
of this straw man
he once flew from.

Eyes burning red,
whilst mine turn to dread
as a ****** of his brethren
began to follow him
and dig into my cloth skin.

I could not stop them,
with their plucking
and pulling
all my hay innards out.

They had no doubt,
nothing to fear here
it was very clear
because I could not
shoe them away.

So, they knocked of the hat that
was stitched to my head,
and ripped up the fabric
that held my button eyes.

If I was ever alive
then that was the night
that I died,
silently screaming,
begging, and pleading
for the crows to stop
chewing and eating
certain bits of my body.

T’was early the next morning
when the farmer found
a mess of straw and fabric
spread across the ground.
Though, to his surprise
no crows filled the skies
and not one part of his corn stalks,
not one pod, or kernel was taken,
or even shaken,
only my flaccid body lay there
exposed to the cold fall air.