| Take a beanpole that has felt the seasons change
|
| He’s known the wind against its face
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| And place it firmly on the softest ground
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| Throw around the pole a cloak of patterns curious
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| That catch the sun
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| And turn the eye away from what is true
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| Paint upon its face a smile
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| That never questions why
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| And crown it with a high hat made of straw
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| And when the evening creeps into your eyes
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| You leave it for the world to see
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| This sad reflection name it vanity
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| Hear the voices talking
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| Though their lips are barely moving
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| Yet their words are cutting quick
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| To find the softest ground
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| Twisting in their broken flight
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| To catch the dreams you cast aside
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| To bring them once again before your eyes
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| Raise the Scarecrow to their lips
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| That stiffen
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| And then turn away
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| To leave you thankful
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| Breathless if alone
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| And though you are too real to disappear
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| You sink again into your bones
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| And leave the Scarecrow to the World
|
| Take a beanpole that has felt the seasons change
|
| He’s known the wind against its face
|
| And place it firmly on the softest ground
|
| Throw around the pole a cloak of patterns curious
|
| That catch the sun
|
| And turn the eye away from what is true
|
| In its hands you place your bitter tears
|
| Its legs will be your broken dreams
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| Swaying from the gibbert of contempt
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| And when you seek for gentle words
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| You’ll find its shadow reappears
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| To shield you from
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| The tenderness of love |