Scarecrow

I live with an unemployed
Scarecrow. Hunched
In front of a Blue
Screen Of Death he
Exacts his
Revenge upon
Pixelated ravens
That mock his
Homely countenance.
He sleeps deeply in his
Dank overalls while his
Wispy pubic beard
Dangles
Sickly from his
Groin-shaped
Face. He feigns
A sense of culture,
Lambasting whatever
Respect one may have
Given him with
Oleaginous inward laughs and a
Penchant for the plentiful
Grain liquor of his
Dusk capped field. What is it like
Living with a man made
Of straw and
Little else? Not enticing
In the slightest. The door
Opens
And the door
Shuts,
And the
Wind
Blows through him
As he slowly and surely ripens
With mildew,
While I
Fly to the
Tower of Babel,
Leaving behind my
Oak pole and
Burlap skin for...

Black wings and
Talons.