On her pedestal he stands High above any other man Trying to reach the promised lands With a cross to bear And nails thrust through wrists and hands. On a yellow brick road covered in straw Lays the gleaming armour of a tin man And by the remains of a scarecrow is a lion’s claw Where a plastic heart ticks no more. He hears children nearby They ask him to be the catcher in the rye But soon the Monkeys will fly And he will meet the wicked witch But for today he wants to play He’s got all his life tomorrow to die. He meets the wicked witch Who locks him in a glass full of sand Time buries his life and soul And scatters him on the wasteland As the children hang from the May pole.