A Proud Scarecrow

An old scarecrow stood with his arms akimbo, Thinking his dull life was now in limbo, He somehow, never seemed to scare the crows, He had tried hard enough, heaven knows. His coat was torn and there were many more Holes, where the crows had searched for straw. His hat was looking limp and out of shape, His shirt in the front, had begun to gape. A fieldmouse had nested inside his sleeve, Even though he had asked it nicely, to leave. Then sadly the whole family had all moved in, And created each night, such an awful din. That poor old scarecrow could get no sleep, It made him sad, and it made him weep, He considered it constantly, in his turnip head, Actually that old scarecrow, was quite well read. Then one day he found he was being moved, Into a very large building, it was proved, A place where important things can be found, Where people stand and admire, and look around. A Museum that's dedicated to our Country Art, And a scarecrow his age, just had to be part Of this collection, that was here for all to view, An exhibit that stated that 'he' was 'New'. In all his tatters, he stood straight and tall, Not minding all the stares, no, not at all, For this new life he felt, just couldn't be beat, Now he's a proud scarecrow, feeling so complete. © Ernestine Northover