The wife of the Tin Man brushes tears from her eyes
She cries for her rose bushes as they wither and die
Her husband the Tin Man looks on in dismay
Like all things not metal, he says: These roses decay
He offers to chop them all down and so set them free
From pain and disease, from heartache and grief
Why would anyone want muscle and skin over spindles and pins?
Why would anyone not wish to be tin?

With sadness he can't understand his wife has agreed
She savors the last of their bloom and the Tin Man proceeds
To prune and dismember, destroy and uproot
A half-dozen rose bushes fall 'neath his axe and his boot
But the last one is wilder, a jungle of vines
That fights to defend and stave off the end
Why would anyone want pain and disease over sprockets and grease?
Why would anyone be willing to bleed?

The Tin Man discovers this last bush was much more
A spine made of iron and nails in its thorns
Hour after hour he hacks and he heaves
Perhaps, says his weeping wife, you should let this one be
But the tin man's determined to rid this thing free
Of flower and leaf, of sunshine and seed
Why would anyone want pain and disease over sprockets and grease?
Why would anyone want muscle and skin over spindles and pins?
Why would anyone not wish to be tin?