They said to follow the yellow brick road,
But never did themselves.
What does that tell you, D?
They were either messing with your head,
Or your head was making them.
On you stepped,
Leaving the woman your house killed.
A little irresponsible,
Don’t you think?
Hell, what do I know?
For all I know there are a plethora of rotting corpses
Laid out behind me.
Onwards and forwards we go,
Souls, whipped from a tornado,
Dropped onto new, technicolor grass,
Our emotions manipulated by a sweet-talking witch,
What funny little brainwashed creatures we are, eh?
What funny creatures we are?
Ignore the scarecrow.
The crows often do.