A Dialogue Between the Scarecrow and Crows

Circiling high above the desecrated corn rows: (Crows) It's time to scrounge belows! belows! (Scarecrow) My field of golden death they chose. (Crows) Fly lower, lower; what glows? glows? (Scarecrow) The hour is late, the fleeting fire grows. (Crows) It's hot, so hot! T'is the burning of us crows! (Scarecrow) Fools! Even I am wiser than Man knows. From beneath the ashes, where the scorched wind blows, Is a charred and twisted, blood red rose.