And here I sit in my sitting chair,
An armless wooden failed repair.
Sores a grind of bone and cheap,
From junk pieces of a tree heap.
For what madness I do not know,
Must a chair be filled with woe.
A red bottom, I fear I'll face,
From a seat of devilish embrace.
But I think I shan't think such thoughts,
Of all that's thunk, but thought for naught.