The Scarecrow

Legends, I think, have been inspired in life
Legends that are born in the absence of light
Legends shapen by the edge of a knife
Like the one you're going to read about tonight

Be welcome to my hometown, forgotten by all
The most nameless of places, a corn field it has
Before the sun rises with the rooster's morning call
Some bizzare things happen right there... alas!

A scarecrow you can see, planted on that field
A scarecrow which on that place has always been
It comes to life when the guardian angels yield
And dances in circles as it plays its violin

It dances, and dances, but not for too long
For a few minutes later his singing he tries
Witnesses say it has written a song
Which lyrics are nothing but laughter and cries

After its ritual it makes for the old Spanish chappel
In which graveyard are tombstones (old too)
Its eyes are fixed and sharp as a scalpel
As it advances dragging its feet as a zombie might do

Its silhouette you can see as it goes through the gates
Its wails you can hear coming out from the mist
It stares at an epitaph as it sits on some crates
And no mortal dares cross him, sinner or priest

This is the legend, as I want it to be told
I went to that tombstone, the one with the epitaph, the same
And as I read the word `Dave` my heart felt dead... cold
for you see, my dear readers... that is MY name.