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Crow cackle! Crow cackle!
…cackling crow!
Who is this scarecrow and what does he know?

What does he do?
And what does he hear?
What does he see?
Why do birds fear?

Crow cackle! Crow cackle! Cackling crows!
Who is this scarecrow and what does he know?

The scarecrow sees bunnies,
the scarecrow sees squirrels,
The scarecrow sees shenanigans
of little boys and girls.

The scarecrow sees nothing
because he doesn’t have real eyes.
The scarecrow’s just hay, in a disguise!
The bunnies will stop put to him one eye,
they cannot seem to figure out, if he’s dead or alive?

Crow cackle! Crow cackle! Cackling crows!
Who is this scarecrow and what does he know?

And the chickadee and the finches and the wrens and the sparrow,
all want to rest on him but find themselves harrowed,
for his job is to be frightening, fearsome and scary,
…and blackbirds, ravens, crows here-ever are nary.

Crow cackle! Crow cackle! Cackling crows!
Who is this scarecrow and what does he know?

You’ll find him quietly scouting the good farmer’s fields,
If you could speak to him or hear from him, what could he reveal?

Crow cackle! Crow cackle! Cackling crows!
Crow cackle! Crow cackle! Cackling crows!

Eating your corn, tormenting fields that you’ve sown,
In the evenings or the mornings he’ll always be alone.
Squawking and screaming their terrible dread!
Crying at you, calling to you and filling your head,
Always complaining and shouting at your ear.
That field and its corn, is what they hold dear.

Crow cackle! Crow cackle! Cackling crows!
Who is this scarecrow and what does he know?

Protecting the corn fields,
forever in the throes,
Crow cackle! Crow cackle!
…cackling crow!

Who is this scarecrow and what does he know?
El Torpedo appeared out of thin air, moving at what could only be called -by any reasonable man, considerable velocity. She crashed into her soft down bed with a force that would've concerned even the most detached of onlookers, had there been any. 'Had there been any?' she wondered, as the recoil from the impact sent her flying into the air. The young girls arms and legs flailed in all directions; her body spinning wildly through the empty space of mid-flight, until finally -THUD!

“******* it, Ghost!” she groaned, holding the back of her head with her gloved hand.
“How can that still be funny!”
There was no reply, only a faint warm breeze and the smell of freshly cut grass.
“This is no time for jokes, Ghost! I was this close to offing those *******. What the **** were you thinking letting them get away?”

For a few moments she continued on mumbling various obscenities and abuse at The Ghost, which we won't bother to detail here. El Torpedo removed herself from the floor and took a few seconds to dust off her omniverse attire.
Ghost Scarecrow replied, “I didn't let them get away.”
“Well, then where the **** are they? I don't see them anywhere!” El Torpedo spat back.
“Of course you don't. They're not within our current field of vision.”
“Very funny, you are such a ******* riot. Did they get away or not?”
“No. They did not get away.”
“Well, where are they, then?”
“Finally, you ask the right question!”
“I already asked you that!”
“Whatever. Let's go.”

At that moment, El Torpedo and the Ghost Scarecrow evaporated into the universe, their molecules became space, all of it...the entire thing all at once, allowing the duo the very useful ability to appear anywhere in the omniverse at anytime without warning. I know, it's hard to comprehend. But, as far as I can tell, and from what I've been told by those who would know, that's what happened. It was a rather difficult period for criminals like me. But that's a story for another time, back to the matter at hand.

Once their miracle of physical travel was complete, the duo found themselves floating approximately 40 feet above the Lacksdale River looking down on Tom's Bridge. Two small objects could be made out in the distance, appearing to hover just beneath.

“That's them?”
“Yep.”
“What did you do, Ghost?”
“I was just practicing my justicing...”
“That's not justice, Ghost. That's ******.”
“No Torpedo, that is art.” His playful demeanor suddenly became somber and serious. “Let's have a closer look.”

The two floated closer. As they came within range, El Torpedo felt the cold, dark energy flowing straight through her soul; Ghost had had one of his moments again. The gruesome scene came into full view: Two men hung upside down from the bridge; the chains that Ghost Scarecrow had used to secure their ankles had already begun their slow and deliberate journey through the men's flesh.





Beneath the chains were crudely fashioned trash bags secured by duct tape around the victim's ankles. Ghost wasn't a detail oriented entity, he just sort of did things in a haphazard way and called it art. Even the casual observer could tell that the job was done in haste. The plastic covered the corpses from ankle to neck. The bags were bloated, filled with the blood of the doomed souls. A few tiny streams of the red liquid made it through the duct tape and ran down the faces of the men.

El Torpedo turned away for a moment and fixed her gaze on the Scarecrow, the smile on his face was quite sinister and chilled her to the bone. She wondered what he thought was so artistic about this brutality. Then she saw their faces. They were beautiful. It must have taken him hours to carve it all.

“How did you do that? It's..beautiful.”
“I didn't do that.”
“You didn't?”
“No. I'm currently compiling a list of possible suspects.”
“Ghost, you told me that you did it.”
“I did.”
“Well, either you did or you didn't. Which is it?”
“I killed them and hung them there. I didn't do the carving. You know I can't draw...at least not like that, and certainly not in this dimension.”
“Then who did?”
“I'm not sure.” The Ghost stuttered, beginning to feel a bit sick. “This looks like the work of...”
Together they finished the sentence, “The Artist!”

For a moment they stared at each other in stunned silence, both absorbing the gravity of the situation. El Torpedo broke the silence, “It can't be, we...I..., I killed The Artist myself. I stuck the barrel to her sweaty forehead; I saw the fear in her eyes when I cocked the hammer. I saw the explosion of blood and brain matter splash against the ceiling and walls after I squeezed the trigger. I wiped her blood from MY face. It's impossible!”
The Scarecrow replied, “It could be a copy cat. The Artist is dead, Torpedo. I was there; I saw what you did to her. No one could survive that -not even her.”

“You two don't know what you saw,” boomed the unmistakable voice of the one and only. “But, I do!” She continued, “You saw what I wanted you to see. Same as now.” She drew a heavy breath, her ample ***** grew fuller. She created the illusion of oxygen intake; she was a creator, and continued her verbal assault on the Scarecrow. “And you! Strawman, or whatever you call yourself these days. To even suggest a copycat after looking at my masterpiece...I'll **** you in eight dimensions a day for the next week! Ten, if I can manage it.” El Torpedo saw the fire of  The Artist's eye flickering in the cool blue darkness. “I think I'll start with the you in this dimension.”

At that very moment, The Ghost fired his (clever weapon name) straight through the heart of what we all, and any person worthy of being reasoned with would've thought was, The Artist. No such luck. The solid image became mist, evaporating before their eyes. I could still see her, safely tucked away. I see lots of things though; hard to keep it all straight, you know?

The Artist continued, “..to think that would work. Good Christ, Strawman! You're dumber than your name implies!”

She reappeared, snuggled closely to the back of  The Ghost Scarecrow. Her knife at his throat, her lips at his ear, she whispered, “My Turn.” She proceeded to pull the blade across Ghost's neck. Before Torpedo could even begin to think about reacting, The Ghost's blood was spraying all over the place. I actually felt bad for her at that moment. It was kind of sad, actually. Blah, rambling again. Back to it!  


“What the **** was that?” El Torpedo uttered, apparently still in shock.
“That, My Dear, is what you can expect when you **** with The Artist!” The sound of her words reminded El Torpedo of the sound of an electric can opener near the end of it's days. “I am the only force in the omniverse that you need concern yourself with, that is all you need to know. Now, Good Night!”

Blinded, but very much alive and very much paralyzed, El Torpedo could feel her limp body sinking into the dark, cold waters of the Lacksdale River. She held her breath for as long as she could, until finally, she gave. The water filled her lungs, but she did not die. A chain appeared around her ankle, it descended deep into the abyss where, presumably, it was attached to something that would keep the girl secure. I'm not sure, I couldn't see that far.

“I've secured you between dimensions, Dear. No one will find you here. Enjoy your stay.” and with that The Artist was gone. But, she'd made one, possibly fatal, mistake. She'd left a witness, ME!
Nigel Obiya Jan 2013
The snowman to the scarecrow, “Hahahaha you’re just a stick figure…. and your hair’s straw.”
The scarecrow to the snowman, “Watch who you talk about whenever you open your mouth, for all the coldness in your words will still melt to the ground along with you as soon as the sun comes out.”
Owned!
“You’re such a chump…” the snowman said… “…two words for your ancestry, tree stump.” the snowman said
“You’re fat… you have a carrot for a nose, and what’s up with that stupid green and red coloured hat?” said the scarecrow
Well played
“I work all year round… you’re here for a season, did you really think you could hold your ground against someone that is here for a reason?” the scarecrow added
The snowman cringed, but then had a comeback
“At least I don’t wear the same filthy clothes every day of the year… what? Are you trying to bring ‘brown’ back?”
Point for Snowman
“It’s better than being fat and going naked.” Scarecrow brought it back

Scarecrow is consistently winning right? I know… I know man!
If he made you a fan, stick around for an autograph… I will throw in mine too
For more on the war of words between these two
Watch this space for round two.
Yeah... don't ask why I wrote this or where it came from, I'm stumped too. **** voices in my head.
Timothy  Mar 2013
Scarecrow
Timothy Mar 2013
Hello scarecrow,
with straw hair and sackcloth skin.
Hello scarecrow,
with drawn on eyes and a mouth shut with a pin.
Your close mouthed smile startles birds, 
and so they have flown like fast regretted words.
alone I see you in the golden field,
alone I feel you, living heart deeply sealed
Sewn inside your rugged flesh,
a man is watching with bated breath.
For a word to signal his return,
for the fire to signify his burn.
Trapped inside another's skin
trapped, waiting for his life to begin.
Your eyes watch the world go by,
trapped scarecrow waits to die,
trapped the scarecrow starts to cry.
If I could set you free I swear I would,
But unlike you, my skin is made of wood.
Goodbye scarecrow,
With gritty straw hair and burnt sackcloth skin.
Goodbye scarecrow,
With living eyes and a skeleton grin.
Gabrielle Ayoub Jul 2014
I often find myself standing alone
I scare people off, I'm fearful of the unknown
They call me a scarecrow but what do I care?
Finding a glimpse of honesty seems to be rare

Sticks and stones are made of my broken bones
And all of the words that have stung me
My heart impure, oh so demure
I long for an utter recovery

I fear it's rotted away beyond any possible repair
In the shadows I pray that someone will end my despair
All they see is a scarecrow, they don't see the human inside
The loneliness in my heart has forced me to hide

All my true feelings, they don't know how much I've cried
Hoping someone would save me without pushing me aside
I'm one of a kind, that's the one thing I know
I'm a scarecrow on the outside, but my soul will always glow.
The concept of this poem is that i have become a scarecrow because i can no longer trust anyone, so i prefer to scare people away rather than trusting them.
Akira Chinen Oct 2014
Old scarecrow of war
Do you remember what you died for?
Whose flag did you wave?
Who gave your life away?
Old scarecrow of war
Did you remember to pray?
Did you thank god for every bomb
   that you dropped?
For every soldier you killed for wearing
  the wrong uniform?
Old scarecrow of war
Did you make your general proud?
How about mom and dad?
Were those tears of joy as they put
  your body underground?
Old scarecrow of war
How many more of our children have to die
  before someone takes you down?
You don't frighten away bullets, tanks, ships,
  planes, or bombs
You don't scare away hate or chase away our
  sorrows
Old scarecrow of war
Being prepared has never brought us peace
Just constant death and grief
cheryl love May 2015
THE SCARECROW
The scarecrow is bored playing the same old game
Cold wet clothes hanging from a wooden frame.
He has no choice but to stand perfectly still
Scaring all the bird s at the top of the hill.
A crow calls out from under the hedgerow
“Catch me, scare me old wooden scarecrow”
But the scarecrow was staring across at a stable
As he had noticed there’s food laid on a table.
“Make haste little bird and fly over to the meadow
Bring me some nice juicy berries from the mistletoe”
“Please little bird, hurry now and be on your way
And can you bring m back some of the lovely hay”
But when the crow returned he found him asleep
He had become bored counting sheep.
The Crow lay beside his feet to keep himself warm
And needed shelter from the oncoming storm.
The scarecrow awoke and looked at his shoe
And at last had found a friend he could talk to.
cheryl love Jul 2013
The scarecrow is bored playing the same old game
Cold wet clothes hanging from a wooden frame.
He has no choice but to stand perfectly still
Scaring all the bird s at the top of the hill.
A crow calls out from under the hedgerow
“Catch me, scare me old wooden scarecrow”
But the scarecrow was staring across at a stable
As he had noticed there’s food laid on a table.
“Make haste little bird and fly over to the meadow
Bring me some nice juicy berries from the mistletoe”
“Please little bird, hurry now and be on your way
And can you bring m back some of the lovely hay”
But when the crow returned he found him asleep
He had become bored counting sheep.
The Crow lay beside his feet to keep himself warm
And needed shelter from the oncoming storm.
The scarecrow awoke and looked at his shoe
He had found a friend he could talk to.
AP Feb 2016
parting clouds over the field of wheat
split the gray into a sea of golden rays
bright enough to leave even the blindest man at his feet

passing wind slithers by  
carrying with it seeds and soft cries
tears from the protector of all the crop
the lonely scarecrow who stays planted
his tune the most melancholy of acoustics
a tranquil coffee shop

birds circle frightfully overhead
for they do not know their avoidance leaves the scarecrow all but dead
he who never meant any harm
but who's appearance raises cacophonous alarm

cursing the sky, the scarecrow shouts
yet, the scarecrow will soon get his wish
once his stump dries he will be free with the coming drought
so as the farmer prays for rain,
he questions God's whereabouts

— The End —