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In fields of corn, the scarecrow stands,

Its burlap face a sight so grand.

But one dark fall, a man did flee

And met his fate within the trees.

The crows descended, black as night,

And pecked his flesh with all their might.

The scarecrow watched as he was consumed,

His screams silenced, his body entombed.

Now every autumn, when the wind blows,

The scarecrow creaks and the crows crow.

No man dares tread these haunted fields,

Where flesh and straw become one's yield.