The Legend Of Johnny Scarecrow

Minding his own business
John Brown found himself staring
At the business end of a sawed off shotgun

A potato sack drawn over his head
Didn't even know where he was taken
Never even ever had a chance to run

Hung from a cross with his own belt
At his feet stripped bare of shoes
Fire was set to a methodical stacking of wood

In the Autmun chill of twilight's veil
As his flesh did burn and melt
Gargled screams came from behind that makeshift hood

The remains of his body were discovered the day after
By children on a shortcut through the field of corn

Suddenly cut short was their laughter
They had never seen a dead body before
And here it was

That the legend of Johnny Scarecrow was born

Later As Minister Wilkins said a prayer
Widowed Ida Brown shed many a tear
Crying, "Black folk shouldn't have to die this way!"

Sheriff Anderson knelt at the crime scene
Whispering into the victim's blistered ear,
"The law will make those sons of bitches dearly pay!"

Wilkins somberly closed the leather bound Bible
His only earthbound treasure
Saying, "Leave it to the Lord to deliver justice

For they will know the mighty hand of God
And burn as John did in the wrath of His displeasure
If I promise anything, I promise you this"

Onward into evening
Sundown marked another wooden cross
Being firmly planted in the ground

Figures in white garb
Gathered in celebration
Of one less black man living in their town

And the Klan mocked the memory of John Brown

They lit the cross
Laughed
And danced around the flames
Shouting with great pride,
"White Power!"

That's when a lone figure
Suddenly appeared to the mass
And Johhny Scarecrow slew them all
In the midnight hour

With a razor sharp sickle in hand
Stolen from Farmer Parker's shed
He decapitated their pointy hoods left and right

As they scattered like rats through the corn
The demon with a potato sack on its head
Killed them all one by one in a single night

He slaughtered them in a fury of vengeance
As they ran panic stricken for their lives
Not even with the tiniest sliver of remorse

They shot him with their guns once or twice
Even stabbed him with their knives
At some point he was trampled by a horse

The -

"That's not how the story goes!"
Little Billy Fitzimmons angrily groaned
Campfire glow illuminating his friends' faces

He was saying, "Everyone knows ....."
When something in the woods behind them moaned
Sending the children running home at breakneck paces

And the legend of Johnny Scarecrow grew
Around many more campfires throughout the years
Handed down from one generation to the next of kin

Who killed those Klansmen, no one knew
Youngsters speculated amongst their peers
While one man had to live onward with that sin

Years later on his deathbed
Tom Anderson asked the Minister Wilkins
To be present for his final confession

Before he uttered a word
Just then life fled his body
Wilkins sighed and said a final, "Amen"

Clenched in the Sheriff's hand

The bloodstained potato sack

Evidence that mysteriously dissapeared
From the investigation, never to be found
Like that rusted sickle now hanging in Wilkin's barn

The hand of God was something to be feared
Justice delivered just as promised
And that's how

The legend of Johnny Scarecrow became another yarn