The shortcut through the Corn field
tempts you as you're walking home
the clouds above keep the moon concealed
As you enter the swaying corn, alone.
The corn grows tall and thick, my friend,
the path you chose is muddy
it grows in rows without scope or end
and in the dark, you hurry
You don't see the standing forms
As you pass them on your way
they stand still amongst the swaying corn
which hides their pallor, and decay
hundreds gather in this field tonight
though you see none at all
yet still you look around in fright
but the corn grows too thick, too tall
You tell yourself as you continue through
"Its merely the rustling of the leaves,"
But they see you, and they hear you,
And they might not let you leave.