There’s an odd place outside of town,
By the name of Scarecrow Hill.
Population: baleful frowns
And its main export is ill will.
If perchance you meet the face
Of one or more of said scarecrow
You best resume your route apace
For you will never shake this foe.
His sackcloth visage worms its way
Into the shadows of your mind
Your very psyche is its prey
Your soul forevermore maligned.
You may think they’re a harmless sort
But forget all you presuppose
If you find that you must consort
Upon the hill with the scarecrows.
And for the curious, don’t succumb!
You’ll find much worse there than a thrill
For if you’re caught then you’ll become
A denizen of Scarecrow Hill!