Midnight has come and the grasses flow on
where the clocks stopped long long ago
but not the grasses beneath
the forever-silent moon,
no, the grasses flow on
past the lonesome prairie graveyards
lapping or skirting mostly bankrupt towns

under stars that never get any closer
where the stores closed permanently
as the customers fill
the overgrown cemeteries,
but there are birds nesting still
in the timeless prairie grasses
where once a living boy is a scarecrow.