His role in life was to be a penny.
A hundreth of a real man after all.
Falling through fingers,
drifting from pocket to pocket.
Rolling down the sidewalk,
hoping somebody’d pick him up.
Shimmer as he’s spinning,
gleaming under street lights,
this 50/50 living eats him up inside.
A hundred of him just to make a dollar.
Sometimes he feels like that is all he’s earned.
He’s been swallowed, he’s been laughed at,
everybody takes their turn.
He’s been wished on, he was wanted,
he once was a vital piece,
but now he’s drifting endlessly,
on the ground beneath your feet.
He’s been beat up, he’s been busted,
everybody’s lost their trust in,
this rusted shard of copper,
in that crack between your seats.
But he’s still metal, once was molten,
before he was pressed into this mold.
He wishes he was golden,
but knows that pennies can’t be gold.
So he grows older, changes pigment,
goes from from shiny brown to blue.
Though there’s newer pennies out there,
he finds for him his use is through.
Cause he’s been thrown out, he’s been wasted,
left in that stupid penny tray.
Nobody really needs him,
so they just throw him away.
But he was lucky, they should have loved him,
they should have kept him in a jar,
but one hundred thousand pennies,
still won’t get you very far.
….
His role in life in life was to be a leper.
Nobody’d ever even hold his hand.