I’ve had it nearly seventy one years, It doesn’t have cogs levers or gears.
Often overworked, misused and abused but still never burned out or fused.
On each side there’s an arm, At the top two eyes full of charm.
At the bottom two feet, still quite fleet
The roofs lost its thatch, the hands have no match.
The head full of cunning and guile,
One day it will end, then my dear friend,
It will all end up in a pile.

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