Ode to an iPod

O iPod, white and sleek and oblong,
Word has it that your goods are gone.
Your 1st gen wheel remains firm to steer,
Your wee screen face youthfully clear,
But Apple says your ticker's tickin'
And your battery could give me a lickin'
By bursting into spontaneous fire
That could, it seems, become quite dire.
And yet, and yet, it's hard to view
A future void of your menu,
With extras that I never filled
Figuring there'd be time for that still...
Now Apple says that chance is past.

Some things, I s'pose, weren't meant to last.

So let's remember the glory times:

The airport queues, the checkout lines,

The walks to work and dashes home

The myriad times you drowned out my phone.

Then I'll wrap you up and send you along

(After I hack your software to get my songs).