The scarecrow was the best there was. You could say he was this in his field.

I boast three stripes, a spiral sight, Yet hold no power, nor shed no light. I spin and twirl, a silent sign, Of snips and trims, leave you looking fine. What am I?

I bloom upon the face with grace, a quiet light no words replace. In joy I grow, in warmth I stay, then gently fade and slip away.

I'm hard and dense, at least in most, as your body is my host. Without me, you would be, a pile of the world's nastiest jelly.

Someone ripped me off and took my coat of wool.