I hunt for gold, I'm told,
It's deep inside my nose.
Index in, always shoveling,
I don't find it gross.
I in fact eat the dig,
The boogers are savagely nice,
They've got a hint of crunch,
Sometimes indian spice.
I look at it and check for gold,
Before I add it to my soup.
Guests get extra helping,
Sometimes my pickled poop.
