This is just a light little something inspired by a picture I was drawing. Please don't ask how my mind works <g>.
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Way out where the grass grows tall and the sky's blue and the water's clear, there was a scarecrow. He hung on a pole in the middle of a field. In the small shack at the end of the field lived a farmer and his youngin's, and the youngest was a daughter named Lila. When Lila came to the age where a gal's thoughts turn to men folk, she used to sit on the fence by the field and cry because she didn't have a feller.
One night, when the stars were bright, and Lila came to cry, the wind picked up and the scarecrow jumped down from his pole. He hopped over to Lila and picked up an old banjo and started to sing to her:
"Don't Cry, Lila! Don't Cry, Lila! Don't cry, Lila! Lila, don't cry!
Lila, my lovely! Lovely Lila! Lila my lovely! Lila, don't cry!"
And every night, the scarecrow would jump down from his pole and play and sing under the moonlight. Then, he'd put down his banjo and kick up his heels and dance for Lila. But always, when the morning came, he'd hop back up onto his pole.
Well time went by, and Lila married. And that very day, somehow or other, the scarecrow plum disappeared. Some say it was stolen; some say the wind up and carted it off. The truth is, he got down from his pole, picked up his banjo, and then hopped up in the air! He hopped up as high as the moon, a clickin' his heels and pickin' his tune.
And when the youngin's gave Lila trouble, and the crops were bad, and Lila just wanted to cry, the scarecrow would float down from above and he'd dance and he'd play. And always, always, he'd vanish the next day.
