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Scarecrow

The black and green scarecrow, as everyone knows, stood with a bird on his hat and straw everywhere.
He didn't care.
He stood in a field where barely grows.

His head did no thinking.
His arms didn't move, except when the wind cut up rough and mice ran around on the ground.
He stood in a field where barely grows.

The black and green scarecrow is sadder than me.
But now he's resigned to his fate, 'cause life's not unkind.
He doesn't mind.
He stood in a field where barely grows.


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