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They said he had no heart at all.
They said he felt no pain.
The stone-faced man just gave the facts.
No feelings would he feign.

He talked of floods and accidents.
He spoke of deadly quakes.
There were reports of surgeries.
He spoke of bites from snakes.

But then one day a war broke out.
It was one of the worst.
The man that was most seasoned.
He would report it first.

And so the tin man was sent out.
Across the world he flew.
He would report of countries torn.
A place where hatred grew.

Day and night, the two sides fought.
The massacre was brutal.
Leaders said they saw no hope.
They said the talks were futile.

One night the man reported late.
The sun was going down.
The light was still enough to see.
The story done in town.

The bullets came from everywhere.
Small fires raged around.
The camera man had focused in.
It seemed there was no sound.

The little girl had stumbled out. 
She could have been his own.
Her face had blood, her skin was torn.
The building had been blown.

The girl appeared as in a daze.
But still their eyes did meet.
Amidst the terror all around.
She walked across the street.

She looked just like an angel.
Her dress was burnt and torn.
She held her hands out to the man.
Her face was so forlorn.

Not more than thirty feet away.
His eyes fixed on the girl’s.
A bullet flew and she went down.
The blood had drenched her curls.

The man just stood in silence.
Like time had stopped in space.
The tin man’s heart had melted.
And tears streamed down his face.

They said he never was the same.
The damage pierced his soul.
They said that you could almost see.
How the bullet made a hole.

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