Alone in a grove a tin woodsman stands
Frozen in mid-swing, axe still in his hands.
His body, his joints, all turned to rust,
Leaves piled around him with ev'ry wind gust.
If you find him and you know what's best,
Stay away, for if you open his chest
Within, once-beating hearts are all you see.
The rust? Dried blood, dripped to his knees.
A heart is all he wants, its true,
And with a swing of his axe, he'll begin again with you.

Review: Coming Soon!