Scarecrow

Coming to the thirteenth green,
The strangest thing I’d ever seen
There, hanging limply in the breeze,
A crow was strung, dead, in the trees

Now what was this, some Wicca rite,
Or there to give the crows a fright?
A warning that, to mess the green
Meant ending up as some obscene
Cadaver, strung up on a limb.

Who created this scarecrow grim?
The phantom green keeper - it must be him
At night when crows have gone to sleep,
Along the ruined greens, he'll creep
Then hang a fresh killed black bird high,
To stop them swooping from the sky
And digging up his sacred plot,
He leaves the warning there to rot.

The black wings, wind induced will flutter,
Putting off the bravest putter.