Children of the Corn

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.