You are the granule of dirt
In the heart of my oyster,
Ever growing and causing irritation.
That pain will soon end
And you will be a pearl,
Strung together with others of your kind
And hung on women’s necks
To make them look richer than they really are.
Maybe you will become the keys
On a fancy musical instrument,
But that is statistically unlikely.
Somewhere the metaphor got lost,
But alas! You won’t follow suit.