What a useless thing,
It stands there stalwart
With a child like expression.
Crudely constructed,  
Kindergarten craft like.

Hair made of straw,
Skin dry and burlap,
Eyes wide and sunken,
Smile crooked and broken.

What a sad thing it is,
Hay filled and overstuffed
Obese, rotund, and moldy
Old and foul smelling—
A potpourri of fungus and rot.

Allegedly scary to the crows,
Standing well within the rows
Protecting corn and other crops
Superstitious like native myths,
But a whiff, a shame
As crows land and pass their excrement.

Dirtied beaten thing
A sign of harvest and oncoming fall,
But a parody of Mythos past
As this scarecrow scares nothing at all.