Pig Iron

I am the pig iron;
you may only mould me
into simple shapes.

Ductile, fibrous, pure,
I am none of these:
slam me with hammers,

and I'll snap. Treat me
like the pig I am.
I'll build you grave slabs,

firebacks: an idiot
hired to be cooled off
in the village trough.

They don't fancy me.
I am the pig iron.
They smelt me out.

From Robinson Crusoe's Bank Holiday Monday