The Scarecrow

The scarecrow
Was fed up of being
A scarecrow.
Now he came to think
Of it
He quite liked birds,
Though crows were a little noisy.
And birds quite liked him.
So he unhooked himself
From his pole
In the dead of night
When he would not be seen.
But he had no place
To think of going
And even fewer places to go.
And, as it was his poem,
He lifted his arms
And flew starward
Towards their light.
And he smiled the
Crescent moon.

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