I Write Poetry

O teller of those sword tongued tales of deeds of this and that
you tell your life to passers-by as they sometimes stop to chat.
You stand alone in care warn coat a hat that's old and battered
but never once you tell the tale of how your heart was shattered.
A maiden fair with hair of gold she came as night was creeping
She tiptoed up to kiss your face, this secret I was keeping.
She danced for you those sultry nights beneath the honey moon
you never knew that she’d be gone, as for you it was too soon.
He came that night with feathered wings and carried her away
You sadly couldn’t follow her you knew she couldn’t stay.
For you are just a scarecrow, left standing in the wheat
And this is just a story I am never to repeat.
For scarecrows everywhere.