Sunday, December 1

Harold

HAROLD
Trot-a-long, trot-a-long.
They beat Harold,
So this is his song.

Sat in the fields, a quiet lad,
But they gave him Hell
When they were mad.

Eyes fell off, and hair fell out,
Cause scarecrows aren't tough,
Ain't no doubt.

Stuffing unstuffed till just a rag
Hung on the stick,
A sagging flag.

Then a dim and dreary day,
They weren't at work;
He came to play. 

Dragged through fields of spiking plants,
Wanted to see them--
Make them dance.

Got revenge; got his win.
Left of those fools
A pair of skins.


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