Chair of Madness

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.