Fate of a Penny (Tails Version)

Get your hands out of your pockets, it's time to take sides.

Go stuff your money grubbing and your graphite rubbing,

this isn't about heads. Dig the underside of the sparest change,

forever underinflated, but half of the coinage some bums spit at.

Like I said hot heads, I'm not heads. So don't flip it.

The taste of copper in the mouth – less like bauxite,

more like scrambled eggs – marks not my spot.

No LIBERTY here, nor scrapply beard,

nor TRUST in divinity. One red cent?

Reddish at best. Hell, I've never even

seen the face of my crenelated memorial.

Go fish in your dish so that you might wish,

thrown in the form of a blip in a well.

For your thoughts? Honestly, Abe.

I have value. And I'm on your ass.

How pluribus can it be to be me?

We're all the same under here. Were.

Mint men revised undersides, seen.

What annum is it? Don't ask me.

Likely as not, the pickle jar awaits.

I numb unum. There's no year here.

And if we're just making up numbers,

fifty to a roll, a hundred holler dollar,

then look at me while I'm yelling:

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA.

If this were a crossword,

country in decline

could be tails fails.

Who's gonna call me?

Suddenly everyone's a referee.

Call me honey, call me.

I warned you but now,

now you've done it.

You've flipped.

And I can't see

what side

I'm on.