Among the golden fields of wheat
A scarecrow stands with crooked feet,
Old straw and rags his only clothes,
A defender of the land he knows.
Beside him stand the towering homes,
Majestic buildings, slick with chrome,
The elite district, pristine and grand,
The scarecrow's charm they can't command.
For though his worn and tattered thin,
He stands for work and toil therein,
A symbol of the earth and sky,
A testament to times gone by.
The buildings may be sleek and new,
But scarecrow has rings of truth,
A relic of a simpler time,
Reminding of a life sublime.
So let him stand, allow to watch,
A knight, that both strong and staunch,
For though the buildings may impress,
The scarecrow can truly bless.