The Ballad of Phoney Gray: First Step

Born out on the dull blue floor,
Growing slowly on chips and more.
Was born he shiny, painfully lone,
packed in the box, which would be home.

This is the ballad of Phoney Gray,
Made of metal, born in a tray,
This is the ballad of Phoney Gray,
Silent as is or talking through a ray.

And so Gray rolled out from his China home,
Dressed in cardboard, packed in foam.
Still asleep, waiting for day to light,
Gray laid still, dreams in sight.

In his dark room, he heard voices strange,
Sometimes far, sometimes within range.
They talked about moving him to store,
To be sold, to be owned, to be abused sore.

And so Gray awoke, from the boring stand,
Powered to life by the shaking hand.
"He's so pretty" she screamed in delight,
"perfect for my darling's like so slight.

And off Gray went, sold to the master,
Dreams, hopes of a future, coming faster.
The first step in this world so big,
To be a useful hand in the busy rig.