Precious Metals
By Meter Maid
When I die and my worth is extolled,
it won’t be for the riches I hold
or my saintly deportment,
despite tooth assortment
of porcelain, silver, and gold.
I am being replaced by degrees.
With titanium joints in my knees
and a plate in my wrist,
I should clang when I twist
like a full set of prison guard’s keys.
I’ve got pincers and pins in my toes
for reshaping the elegant pose
of my hooves in their shoes,
and my loose mental screws
rattle ’round when I’m blowing my nose.
If you’re secretly hatching a plot
to fire up a gargantuan pot
and melt me down early,
don’t bother — you surely
won’t get twenty bucks for the lot.
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