The tin man came to town, not today, but yesterday.
He had a funnel for a nose and a head full of oil,
but his joints were as dry as chalk bone.
His rusty hinges creaked and bellowed as he walked on
up the road, and all the while he sang:
"I'll never feel a thing with this old heart of mine." I can't recall the rest.
He blew out the smoke from an exhaust pipe cigar,
grinned at me with his wingnut teeth and
disappeared into the haze of a hot afternoon.
I went to the same spot today, but he wasn't there.
I must go and see my Mushroom Man.
Dan is a content writer by day and a scribbler of odd ball fiction by night. Some of his work features in Granny's Tea, The Poetry Cove, Ink, Sweat & Tears, aAH! Mag, Black Pear Press, and BBC Radio Berkshire. He also likes beer, Bukowski, and slapping the bass. He is also the co-founder of The Nuthatch.
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