He who walks between the rows
Avoids the breezes as he goes.
From stalk to stalk he tracks his prey,
A sharpened scythe with which to slay

No rhyme, no reason and no recourse
He reaps the corn with no remorse.
Tall stalks, and short. Long lines of corn
whose heads are clipped and bodies torn.

They rot and feed the soil below
From which the new years corn will grow
The Reaper man will then attend
to them, then you and I my friend.

There’s no meaning to the greening,
No future for the stalks.
Just the ever present scythe of Time
and footsteps of the Death who walks.