I know nothing of farming, but I’m the best one
To behave as your farmer by bullshit alone.
Is it that what elected me is a machine
Most corrupted and broken and makes me obscene
That erodes any hope you have down to the bone?
How I commandeered this field will be told to none.
Those who say I’m a scarecrow have gathered no proof
That betrays that I am one. This clears me of shame
On the outside, but inside, there’s only hot air.
That hot air can be blameless is not only fair,
It’s the best way I know of to win at life’s game.
Mentally insufficient, I can seem aloof.
The report says they tried hard, but they couldn’t find
Enough factual evidence linking me to
All who took part in stuffing me to make me look
Like something of a candidate. But, I’m a crook.
You Can’t PROVE I’m A Scarecrow, so all you can do
Is to ignore the hay you see. Pretend you’re blind.