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Silver filled incisors, Cuspids capped in gold; They won't decay, they'll simply rust As I am growing old. A thousand precious dollars For attractiveness I seek; And all that I've attracted Are magnets to my cheek. With all this precious metal A tax-break I deserve; I think that I should be declared A national reserve. When I die and head up north, (My body six feet south), It may be hard to be worth more Than the metal in my mouth.
Wes Stephenson

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