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If some day you decide that love is lost
and polish me and put me up for sale,
I doubt you’d get a tenth of what I’ve cost
in time and money, heartache and travail.

You’d want the Blue Book price for me, I guess,
although I’ve been from here to Timbuktu.
You’d cry before you’d take a penny less
for this old engine that still hums for you.

You’d fail to see my scratches and my rust,
the dents no buyer ever would ignore,
and close together, crumbling dust to dust,
we’d both be doomed to park forevermore.

So keep the key, original and good,
that sparks to life what’s left beneath my hood.