the not so magic roundabout

I was a man on a Merry-Go-Round
merrily going round and round
when the man who ran the Merry-Go-Round
sent it out of control.

Then faster went the Merry-Go-Round
and faster it went again,
round and round with a screeching sound
like the death throes of a troll.

The ground around the Merry-Go-Round
became a continuous blur
and the man who'd run the Merry-Go-Round
clung to its central pole

for flames had appeared and horses reared
and the Merry-Go-Round was a casserole
in which spinning shapes had suddenly spun
out of a deep black hole.

From somewhere within the Merry-Go-Round
came sounds like a quake now, splitting the ground
and the swan I was on went down on its knees
before it began to roll.

Bits were thrown from the Merry-Go-Round,
over the fairground, far and wide
and into my lap fell a starry-eyed bride
in the shape of a porcelain doll.

I asked the man, still stuck on his pole,
could he magic the doll alive?
The Merry-Go-Round, said the man to me,
has centrifuged her soul;

it's widely dispersed across the ground
among the swings and the coconut shies.
All that is left is porcelain -
which I find irresistibly droll.