Counting Crops in the Scarecrows Den

Road mads never sell the enterprise of less and less,
the farmer creates an underground to fullfill desires.
Hidden beyond the fields of folks feinding for a fight,
opening the road but only with dirt and a retrieving sunset.

Foxes red eyes match the blood-shed in this mood-elevator,
the smile of the scarecrow sends shivers down the spine of society.
Distillation of a dream in the heartland,
Becomes a drink for the soul in this crystal city.

Revival of the grass punctuates the pictures in the golden alley,
the corn stalks ripen with virtue while pickers pick names,
Each name belonging to a calender and a fate to decide their counting ways.

Counting crops in the scarecrows den,
will take its home in the year of your most troubling times.
Country full of children dare not dwell on such horrific numbers,
alas a man down on his luck reaches for the scarecrows hand,
only to find an empty bottle.