Trot-a-long, trot-a-long.
They beat Harold,
So this is his song.
Sat in the fields, a quiet lad,
But they gave him Hell
When they were mad.
Eyes fell off, and hair fell out,
Cause scarecrows aren't tough,
Ain't no doubt.
Stuffing unstuffed till just a rag
Hung on the stick,
A sagging flag.
Then a dim and dreary day,
They weren't at work;
He came to play.
Dragged through fields of spiking plants,
Wanted to see them--
Make them dance.
Got revenge; got his win.
Left of those fools
A pair of skins.
YOU ARE READING
Poems for Morbid Children
PoetryThis is a collection of some of my more curious and macabre poems. Many of my poems play with words, the sounds and shapes of them. However, I often attempt to delineate emotion and sensation I cannot otherwise word, or I take inspiration from legen...
