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?