My Heart Belongs To . . . . .

I stopped beating in my host's battered body,
I'd had a poor life, now what was to become of me,
I was to be transplanted - extracted and carried away,
in one of those boxes in an ambulance bay.

My old host had not been good, abused me always,
I hoped that my new home would have nice days,
we could go out for a gentle run, me pumping along,
didn't want all the old ways which had been wrong.

The name of my new surrogate was Bob, good chap,
although he seemed to have too many ladies on his lap,
I could assist the glands  which produced adrenaline,
so that he would be an awesome and energetic machine.

It was just a matter of time before I was misused by Bob,
the ladies in bed were too frenzied and I died on the job.