<b>“I have come for my brains,” remarked the Scarecrow, uneasily.</b></p>
<br>

My mouth was a painted grimace</p>
on a straw-filled potato sack.</p>
<br>

I could not speak</p>
My words came from scraps </p>
and wasteland –</p> 
<i>rats’ feet over broken glass</i></p>
<br>

Dust blew into my cracked</p>
eyes. I could not cry.</p>
<br>

Sometimes I sagged on this pole, like </p>
A stilled flag. I was a wind-beggar.</p>
<br>

I could hold up my bag-head if I chose </p>
but usually I stared down at my scuffed shoes –</p> 
One brown, one black, no laces,</p>
pegged in place by bulldog clips, they </p>
hang from my trousers – like suicides.</p>
<br>

Empty glove hands flap no fingers.</p>
<br>

What wouldn’t I have given for a bone or </p>
a blackened tooth? </p>
<br>

Now my intestines itch madly. Were I human</p>
a tapeworm would be less irritating.</p>
It’s all kept inside with strong twine and </p>
A belt buckle.</p>
<br>

These days - I wish I’d tear open. Let </p>
the crows peck me slack, become </p>
a dishrag.</p>
<br>

Six weeks ago,</p>
after I was given my reason,</p>
they nailed me up here,</p>
two sticks crossed and tied,</p>
broken broom handles.</p>
<br>

That’s the biggest joke of all.</p>
Before, when I was an earwig’s nest,</p>
these thoughts did not exist.
<br>
Now I know what I am –</p>
I’m a sham.</p>
A pest controller, a bird scarer,</p>
A dead man’s Sunday best.</p>
<br>

And I’m useless at it – </p>
This is my last day on field duty.</p>

They’ve been building it for a week –</p>
Paper, twigs, unwanted furniture</p>
logs. Everything chopped and stacked</p>
piled up like a witch’s hat.</p>
It’s all been dried out and dowsed in </p>
petrol.</p>
<br>

Sacrifice is too strong a word for it,</p>
I’m a device.</p>
<br>

Up there’s a chair with three legs.</p>
The coronation throne where later</p>
I’ll receive my cardboard crown.</p>
<br>

From tortured fool to murdered king </p>
in a flash.</p>
<br>

Oh how my new brains will burn.






