The way You cradle my *** Steals my comfort, Like a thief true to the black mask painted on you You are not wood, but a trees revenge. Plaguing my body with discomfort Repercussive of the agony from flannel coated lumberjacks, way back when
Four legs Must be sneakier Than two, for no two legged beast has yet robbed me. But my chair, Does so daily.
Yet I Come back to you, I Sit atop of you Expecting in your apparent antiquity To soak some of that wisdom so often attributed to my elders around campfires. I guess you only give me that gift when you burn.
And so I should have known By the hollow shout I hear Echo when I trampoline my knuckles on your skin As Dorothy knocked upon Tinman, finding not his heart- Neither do I find yours.
Or is It admirable Perhaps, that you support me even as I presently slander you As Atlas supported the world, Whose stars that stabbed him in the back
For that I certainly will Return to you tomorrow And while you are not the most sittable chair you are at least my loyal chair
A ha! The wisdom promised Is found, without striking a match And dancing around Your burning, crackling corpse.
In fact, I promise you this I shall save you first In the event of a fire.