Couch on a walk

Today I gave my green couch a new pair of feet.

They’re made of steel, not warm wood or meat.

That’s why they’re cold, so I made him socks as well,

I slipped them on his metal paws and I could tell,

He really liked them; flashing a cushiony smile,

Stretched his tootsies and walked for a mile.

Shaun’s red socks as a gift to my couch,

Red ones go faster, so no way you can slouch.

The green of his cloth getting brighter in the sun,

A dust mite shower when he skipped and spun.

The sleepy coins in its bowels with a coppery yawn,

Came up for air and flexed their brawn.

A book’s worth of coins on a couch on a walk,

Doing press-ups like a silvery jock.

This was seen by a passing reporter,

And in a half hour, or just a quarter,

They were the stars of a mag of good feel:

“The new weight-loss secret for abs of steel!

Brought to you by our rock hard pros,

The mystery only the mineral-kind knows.”

The next step was a large talk-show circuit,

Telling Conan and pals just how and when to work it.

This new life was sweet for the cash,

They had made it, made it in a flash.

But it stopped with some abruption,

They got kidnapped by a tool of suction,

Invented by a crazed numismatist-innovator,

Just a collector, not jealous or a hater,

He stole the coins for his gratification,

Aberration coin-robbing our entire nation.

The couch, however, just kept on trucking,

While our thief, quite literally, keeps on sucking.


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