In the middle of the field the scarecrow
hangs in crux
The lifeless limbs fixed to a tee
Waiting, stoic, in bloodless effigy for
to battle a foe
Who has long since flown.
The straw-man argues ad hominem
against his creator,
(as he refers to the one who, presumably,
so ineptly formed him)
Pointing out that even a dim-wit
would not place a guard
In such a dire strait where his ostensible foe
could strafe the immobilized sentry.
His wizened wig-hat bedecked in snowy down
shames his noble lineage.
How might one be expected to stand forth,
command the field and chase away the pestilence?
One so scrawny, so haplessly attired,
so straw-brained has no chance;
Is only a mockery of a murder.
He only has to stand and wait.
The days long and hot, the sun laughs,
sets late.
Ashiver in the too short night,
it is considered that Dante’s innerest
circle of hell
Might not be all that bad.
poetastrophy 