Pierre

A Swede by stately heritage

Tho Frenchman by the makers’ hands

Was more than sold for less a grand

He’s like an orphaned dog, a sage

She cleans Pierre with careful care;

He was waxed with pine tree sap

And where once he had a tick to tap

No longer rattles like a snare

His accoutrements are cold and chrome

His contortion bears a stolid air

He breathes out the city’s sullied air

And tucks away beside our home

He roams wherever we roam

And when he tarries at a halt

She isn’t addled by his faults

But learns the way he’s knit and sewn

A progressive work is his stave

We will learn him till we know him

And even if his chance is slim

Everyone wants to be saved

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