by Nick Gisburne
I haven’t been selected for a while,
But maybe soon. Today? Tonight? Who knows?
I have a little rust around my smile,
But never so conspicuous it shows.
I’m really quite a catch for what I am,
The pride of Level One a while ago,
But no one asks for mutton when there’s lamb,
And what they want replaces what they know.
I’m listed now as Level Three. The nerve!
The bargain bin we call it in the trade.
A four-point-five for pleasure, every curve
Refurbished, and my friction will not fade.
They’ll put me in the crusher with the junk,
So pick me, someone, even if you’re drunk.
