I've sat and waited, breath quite bated
No objection have I stated
I'm a tool of human leisure-
Of complaint I've not the pleasure-
Now I must speak, confess my stress
So you have chance to make amends
Day after day and night after night
I suffer subjection to this plight!
I'm sick of your posterior!
Your bottom and your derriere!
If I had feet I'd run away
But, curse and damn it!, I must stay
Oh, have your twisted morbid fun
If I had feet, I swear I'd run.
With you upon me, clinging tight
Suffice to say, "It serves you right!"
Get off me you unsightly brute!
How drastically you dull my mood...
My hope is that a speaking chair
Will set you right, and me, you'll spare
If not, then here's a subtle clue
Ow-ner of mine, the hell with you!