A Dream That Stuck

I had about a thousand dreams last night.

But one:

I was on a tour of a madhouse called The Wizard of Oz. My tour guide was male, stretched and lanky, wore a blue top hat, and sang absolutely everything. He escorted me up a flight of curly stairs and welcomed me into the room known as Hairy Mountain. There was nothing in the room to indicate why it was called Hairy Mountain. There were lounge chairs in a couple of the corners, books bursting from haphazardly organized bookcases, and a completely idle mini train-set. The feature of the train-set was a wooden coffin - unburied, completely plain, but on the crest of sweeping fields surrounding the track like a star on top of a Christmas tree.

I cannot remember the lyrics. I cannot remember the melody. But everyone who lived within the Wizard of Oz knew it and knew it so well it was as though it was the house anthem.