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!

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