The Catcher in the Skye

If a body catch a body
coming through the rye
a figurehead, the crops reflect
an image of the sky
the clouds then flock like suitors
its a question not a lie
if a body catch a body coming through the rye

he thrusts
his fists
against
the post
but still
he insists
he sees
the ghosts
and still
his wrists
doth boast
and boasts
while his
mind mists
he sees
the ghosts