The Tin Woodman
A lumberjack should know nothing of loss
but that coward witch taught ol' Nick Chopper
replacement parts can only go so far.
Now my tin wears thin beneath vines and moss.
To be made of clockwork and love no more
To be entrapped by rusted over limbs
These branches! My wooden prison condemns
my heart, my heart, decayed by rain, my core
A bit of oil looses my aching joints.
Could this girl's wizard finish my repairs?
I muster not even halfhearted hope
Toward a city of emerald our road points
They say the path belongs to him who dares
Take heart, take heart you metal misanthrope.
Ps. AuntShecky That was awesome! Great unity of idea and form, given the restrictions of a sonnet.