Yes, another poem about the Scarecrow. (Not the Batman villain) Hope you get nightmares. 
SCARECROW VICTIM NO. 1
Alastair Skerman
In a little village on a little hill,
In a little street too, if you will,
Sat a house so sweet and warm
Of pretty things and aesthetics norm.
There lived a some nice unassuming folk,
Of pretty faces and nice words they spoke.
The only daughter, by the name of Jill,
Was happy there upon that little hill.
She was of that age to look at boys,
But she preferred to play with her toys.
She was pretty enough, and was not shy,
But those awkward stages just passed her by.
Her parents did not know how to act,
To be happy or worried, the will they lacked.
So they left her to play with her little joys,
And she never once thought of those silly boys.
At least so everyone thought, including herself,
But things should not be bottled and left on the shelf.
As days flew by and play things grew
She started wandering how she knew
That something just wasn’t right.
Nothing seemed wrong, the days were bright,
And she was in perfect human health.
But someone knew she was not herself.
He stood on the hill and watched her live,
With a sewn up mouth a grin would give.
The ragged figure had found his game,
The fact there weren’t witnesses was a dreadful shame.
One night at roughly ten past two,
As the moon did shine and the grass it grew,
The girl she lay in restless sleep,
Having given up of counting sheep,
When through the window came a voice,
Young and inviting, and gave her choice.
‘Why are you happy to live in such cages?
Why not come with me to sample the ages?’
She looked out the window and saw out by the field,
What looked just like a boy, and her heart it reeled.
What was this sense of mysterious adventure
Of gambling rush that suddenly swept her?
‘Who are you?’ she asked, still smart enough to know,
That a normal boy does not go round and yell at girls’ windows.
‘Come down and I shall tell you!’ The figure it did promise,
And the poor pretty young lass, thought of him as honest.
As the girl crept through her polished doors,
As her parents slept and let out snores,
A monster waited in the breeze,
Watching as the girl did freeze
In the cold of night and the rushing air,
When suddenly the girl got quite a scare.
There was no boy of features neat,
Of flowing hair and eyes a treat,
But rather a man made of cloth and stitches,
And pointy hands that belonged to witches.
‘Terribly sorry,’ he said, ‘To disappoint
But you must understand there was a point
To get you here where no one can save you
Because, of course, my stomach craves you.’
And he lurched forwards with stick-thin limbs,
And her scream was lost against the winds.
In the morning there was no trace
Of either the girl or the man with the face
With a sewn up grin and dark empty eyes.
The media told of various lies,
Such as kidnapping, but none were close
To the thing of which they feared the most.
A farmer told a few nights later,
That one night he had slept a little fainter
And he had seen a patchwork man,
Walking with a girl, hand in hand.
But there was a fact he never stated:
The girl had been decapitated.
