Scarecrow

He came through the door
A pile of clothes with eyes
His eyes were touch screen
And they were wiped clean
He was hung out to dry
Until all the creases had left his body
Then he decided to smoke some notes
Over the fragrant sound of lavender
Where you find lavender you find mice
Rustling and relaxing in the undergrowth
He was sad that from now on
There would be no love letters to his friends
But he wanted to get back to reality
And that would only be achieved
By acknowledging that he needed ironing out
His brain had too many twist and turns
Which is normal – but the strands of grey matter
Should essentially be straight
At night he folded himself up
And went to sleep with the smell of aniseed and menthol
Permeating his lungs, you’ll see him soon
Flying as a banner for what reality stands for
Reality is slowmoving a bit like the sea
Which you can stand and look at for centuries
With the smell of salt and iodine cleansing you