Scarecrow

The rain's left you moldy,
in a coating of green.
And you're the ugliest
scarecrow I've ever seen.

You're just a puppet,
in the image of man.
Clothed in dirty rags,
over a rusty tin can.

The stuffing's fallen out,
of your wind torn clothes.
And now you hang deflated,
in your once noble pose.

You look so comical,
like a crazed circus clown.
You're leaning lopsided,
and about to fall down.

With an old wrinkled face,
you're too sad for words.
Yet the crops are ready,
and there's no sign of birds.