Nonsense about scarecrows and air flows.
A darker wind has fallen through the flue that guards the air
It shutters, it stumbles, it sighs,
As the pale breeze is calling for a jacket and two pair
(“One straight-hemmed, one roll-cuffed, this size”).
In the valley of the living stands a scarecrow, freshly dead.
Its tailor is serving the breeze.
To the darker wind it’s giving a clean place to rest its head
And blankets to cover its knees.
Dead scarecrows all are racists, fooling breezes, aiding winds;
The breezes are wealthy, you see?
And they’re also “moral Marxists”, robbing if it meets their ends,
I hope that they never cross me.