The False Scarecrow

Intro

(The track opens with the dry, rhythmic rustle of cornstalks swaying in a harsh wind. A heavy, singular boot-stomp drops, followed by the metallic, echoing rattle of old bailing wire. A delta-blues style slide guitar plays a solitary, mournful riff that feels ancient and stained with dust.)

Verse 1

I went out to the northern acre just to check on the winter wheat

With the morning frost still clinging to the leather on my feet

I looked across the furrowed rows where the old guard used to stand

The cross-beam frame I built myself with hammer in my hand

But the burlap head was tilted wrong, the posture was too straight

The flannel shirt I stuffed with straw didn’t have that heavy weight

The arms weren't tied with bailing twine, they hung down at the side

And the shadow that it threw across the dirt was twice as wide

I took three steps toward the ditch, my breath turning to vapor

That thing out in the field… wasn’t my own design or paper.

Chorus

(The percussion shifts into a heavy, driving train-beat stomp; the slide guitar growls with a distorted, minor-key tone)

There’s a false scarecrow standing in the weeds

Sowing something wicked where the blackbird feeds

Every single morning when the rooster starts to crow

It’s standing a few feet closer to the porch light’s glow

It doesn’t have a heartbeat, it doesn’t have an eye

But it’s measuring the distance underneath the autumn sky

Oh, look away from the glass, lock the wooden frame

The thing out in the cornfield is calling out my name.

Verse 2

On Wednesday dawn I rubbed my eyes and pulled the curtain back

It had crossed the old stone boundary line and left a shallow track

The wooden post it used to ride was missing from its spine

It was balancing on two dead feet right on the property line

The face was made of rotting sack, stitched up with black twine

But it had a grin stretched ear to ear that looked a lot like mine

The crows wouldn't go near it, they were gathered on the barn

Watching that silhouette creeping closer through the yarn

I loaded up the twelve-gauge, sat vigilant on the porch

But the fog rolled in so heavy that it swallowed up my torch.

Chorus

There’s a false scarecrow standing in the weeds

Sowing something wicked where the blackbird feeds

Every single morning when the rooster starts to crow

It’s standing a few feet closer to the porch light’s glow

It doesn’t have a heartbeat, it doesn’t have an eye

But it’s measuring the distance underneath the autumn sky

Oh, look away from the glass, lock the wooden frame

The thing out in the cornfield is calling out my name.

Verse 3

(The instrumentation drops out almost entirely, leaving only a heartbeat-like foot stomp and a stark, percussive banjo pluck)

By Friday night the wind was dead, the air was bitter cold

I didn’t dare to close my eyes, I felt a century old

At 3:00 AM the floorboards groaned beneath the bedroom floor

No, it wasn't inside yet—it was right outside the door

I heard the texture of rough burlap dragging on the glass

Scraping up against the screen, waiting for the night to pass

I turned my head real slow toward the window by the bed

And saw a hat made of dead straw silhouetting my own head.

Bridge

(The music collapses into a chaotic, building storm of screeching fiddle notes, frantic foot-stomps, and a driving, distorted blues riff. The vocals are delivered in a breathless, panicked snarl)

It didn't come to guard the harvest. It didn't come to scare the birds.

It came to claim the master of the house without any words.

The twine is at the windowpane. The burlap’s at the latch.

There isn’t any weapon that can kill a shadow patch.

It’s standing on the flowerbed. It’s looking through the seam.

And the face behind the canvas mask… is ending every dream!

(A blisteringly raw, distorted slide-guitar solo tears through the track, sounding like a frantic, desperate scream for help in an empty valley)

Chorus

(The final chorus hits with maximum gothic intensity, backing vocals joining in a haunting, wordless funeral dirge harmony)

There’s a false scarecrow standing in the weeds!

Sowing something wicked where the blackbird feeds!

Every single morning when the rooster starts to crow!

It’s standing a few feet closer to the porch light’s glow!

It doesn’t have a heartbeat, it doesn’t have an eye!

But it’s standing on my threshold underneath the autumn sky!

Oh, look away from the glass, shatter the wooden frame!

The thing out in the bedroom… is wearing my own name!

Outro

(The heavy blues instrumentation vanishes instantly. The only sound left is the slow, agonizingly rhythmic 'creak... creak... creak' of an old house's wooden foundation shifting under a heavy weight. The wind rustles through the dry corn outside.)

The morning light never comes.

The bedroom window glass shatters inward with a sharp snap.

A gravelly, straw-stuffed voice whispers from the dark beside the bed:

"Time to go out to the field."

(The track ends abruptly with the heavy, definitive "THUD" of a body hitting the floo