We'll polish the silver,
and cook in the copper,
and in gold forever,
we'll trust.
But it's the iron
that flows through our veins,
and the fire that kindles our lust.

But silverware darkens,
and kettles turn green,
as the coins in our pocket
go bust.
And fires die slowly
when we don't feed them,
and blood doesn't tarnish,
It rusts.