I am just a scarecrow

I am made of straw

I look out on the cornfield

and this is what I saw:



a hundred crowbirds are eatin' up the crop

it doesn't matter 'cause it hasn't rained a drop

in a year



I had myself a dream

that I got down from this pole

and danced myself a jig

while the farmer hoed the row



in my dream I journeyed to a strange land far away

I feel in with companions and we searched for hearts and brains

and courage



* * *



And when my dream was over

I was right back on this pole

out in this lonely cornfield

still heckled by these crows



though I contemplate for hours I still don't have a clue

what makes this world go 'round and 'round

or what makes two times two

equal four





(I guess OZ never did give nothing to the scarecrow, either.)