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.



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