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Sitting on my old pal's lap
We suffered a somewhat strange mishap
Out of the blue, she broke in half
For once, I simply couldn't laugh
Ejected, shaken but not stirred
Had no breath to say a word
Her seat on which I had just sat
Was split in two upon the mat
We lay together on the floor
Dumped, distressed, decidely sore
Gazing at that upright, spiral thread
Without its 'hat' upon its head
How lucky it was made of wood
(A metal jab would not be good!)
With splinters in places most impolite
Bruised all over (a colourful sight)
I cannot kneel. I cannot squat
Silly thoughts relaxed me a lot
"Come-downance", is there such a word?
And "Unhoisted by one's own petard?"
Half-hour later, I finally hauled off the floor
Hooking my stick's crook round handle on door
Grace is a wooden, height-adjustable stool
Who favours me co-operatively ~ as a rule!
This is a tale with a happy ending
A friend, with wood he's skilled at mending,
Rebuilt, reinforced, Grace's seat back in place
Once again, I sit pretty, my bum on her face
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