Can confuse itself with the corn,
With the barley, the beets, the wheat,
The grey scarecrow, tattered and torn,
Propped for the sake of convention,
With no hope of scaring the crows,
Rustling in every bit of wind
Through the remnants of others' clothes,
Lisping straw-filled hints and whispers
Of wisdom a field cannot own,
Being an area, barely,
Where more things grow unknown than sown.
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