My nature is dented - a hundred thousand miles
and at best ten years removed from bright showroom shine.
Known to graze guardrails - daddy preached through wasted smiles,
"keep it between the ditches; and despite incline
to stall out, I stay idling, rough. I never rot,
just rust. At times abandoned 'til roadside repairs
can get me running again once right parts were got.
My nature's deeply dented, inside vinyl tears
duct-taped together - grey Frankensteins without real
re-sale value, too blemished to be classic, bound
close to home by leaking fluids. Rumbles reveal
unmuffled existence; cooled down on oil-stained ground.
My nature remains dented, rust gets worse with age,
'til abandoned at edge of still-developed stage.
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