Not hurting e'en a fly,
Brown and worn, its life shorter than it was,
The perfect mid-life guy,
Its favourite times must be when it's sat on,
Imagine what it hears,
The coos and bites and thoughts and flatulence,
The singles in front of it feeling slight,
The transference of fibers and of skin,
Accumulated years,
Left again on pants and skirts as they leave,
Perhaps congealed with tears,
And, man, those legs,
Once so shiny and new,
Maybe their creator had admired them,
Now they lay hiding, just supporting you.
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