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The Land Of Oz And The Temple Of Doom
by Earl Coleman

Ah, Toto dear, I fear
we’re not in Vineland any more;

the Tin Man tacks cheap siding
on the old pine door;

the Straw Man has invited
all the hawks to crow;

we’re virtually uplifted
and away we go
on the hot air of ballooning
we are dough see dough.

The Tube’s a wholesome choice
between a rodent and a Tisch,
a felon owns the Yankees,
and the Muslims own a wish.

The Wizard bets a billion
on the price of gold
but the grinning face of Wal--Mart
will not be undersold.

In the war against the evil ones -
there’s much we’ve not been told.

The Wicked Witch approaches
on her old Schwinn bike;
we live in danger, Toto,
with our soundless mike;

and Auntie Em is buried
near the grand old oak
but we fail to see her tombstone
cause there’s too much smoke

from the bombs, the flak,
the flag, the drum,
the giants roaming freely
with their fi-fo-fum,

and we are tightly tethered
almost globally,
and space-cramped as age circles
in the old oak tree.

Wherever we may travel, dear,
from Oz to Nome,
we are nailed to golden arches
so we can’t leave home.