There was a man of iron.
There was a boy of oak.
They met mildly admirin’
A fierce but blighted folk.

The man puffed ruby rust,
“I never knew a how-so-now
Who I could ever trust.
All they’ve ever made, I vow,
Has rightly gone to dust.”

The boy barked out a laugh
To hear such folly flop,
“Do you think they have a half
A care for your thoughts, pop?
I’ll tell you ‘no’ on their behalf
And ask you now to stop.”

The folk heard both and laughed with ease,
“We’ll make you into barrels
And fill you up with bees.
We’ll save you from the peril
Of puffing on the breeze.
You can hold our honey
And dispense it as we please.”

The boy of oak kept laughing
But the iron man grew cold
And went to rust some more
And maybe grow to mold.

The boy moved on as well
As wings were buzzing on the air.
The fierce but blighted folk
Got back to their work with care.