Land of dancing scarecrows should have stayed secret,
now the girl from Kansas lies in cold asylum
strapped down for shock therapy.
Reality is insomnia and farm work
not a magic key sent on a shooting star.
No more rainbows, the memory is derelict,
a scattered mess of yellow brick and weeds;
everyone turned to stone
and the tick-tock of mechanical morals has stopped,
Spies watch from each piece of rock, minions
of the king; he took back his emeralds
so there's no currency of colour, no joy.
He swallowed up all little people, turned them
into posh ornaments for his palace
and now there is no one left who remembers Oz.
It's an old dream.
Only hope is Jack Pumpkinhead, a talking chicken,
and a fading imagination.