The Cornfield
The crow sat perched on the stump
Its wings were messy and torn
Its beak was filled with the feast it had
While the rest was left in the corn
The scarecrow looked on and turned his gaze
His lips long sewn shut
Even if his arms weren’t nailed
The victim would still be in a rut
The crow sat perched on the stump
A man came walking through
With a twinkle in his eye he tipped his hat
But that crow knew
—ZeKat
