Weary traveller, small and meek,
O’er the fields, a path I seek.
The labyrinth does stretch ahead,
It fills my heart with endless dread.
My freedom I begin to mourn—
My world is now just endless corn.
Lonesome is the journey still,
A child appears, his voice so shrill.
“Who watches thee?” I ask the boy,
No answers does his mouth deploy.
His eyes across my face, they graze—
He disappears into the maze.
A leaf, some hay, an apple core,
A crow descends onto the floor—
Unwelcome guest, wingèd fiend,
He cannot aid my quest, it seems.
Lifting winds, the stalks they rap—
I really wish I had a map.
Resignedly, I take a right,
And rows of stalks remain in sight.
“Curse this maze!” I cry aloud,
This wanderer is less than proud.
Melancholy is the man
Who enters corn without a plan.
Lo! What grace before me do I see?
Beyond the stalks I spot a tree,
Beyond the tree there stands a farm,
It welcomes me with open arms.
To celebrate this glorious feat,
A caramel apple I shall eat.
