Mel. B. Spurr
 I’ll tell a doleful tragedy in verse, in five acts
It isn’t fiction that I now rehearse, it’s facts
It’s quite as bad as Edgar Allen Poe, or wuss
It must be taken dignified and slow - like thus:

Act 1.
It was a chair.
It stood within a darkened room
In weird, mysterious dismal doom
A simple, leathered-seated chair
With spring gone rocky here and there
Its legs were bandy, one was gone
And it stood upon three legs alone
‘Twas only a chair - unsightly, mean
But ah! a tragedy lurked unseen
In that old chair.

Act 2.
It was a youth
A lad of calm, unruffled mien
A boy of twelve - perhaps thirteen
He had an uncle, old and grim
And, oh! how that youngster hated him
He never gave him coin to spend
But bade him to his tasks attend
And now, all insults to avenge
He swears that he will have revenge
That simple youth.

Act 3.
It was a pin
A simple, unobtrusive thing
Hidden away behind a spring
It lay, in stealthy ambush there
Serene, unseen, in that old arm-chair
Its useful, penetrative end
Did upwards from the seat ascend
It had been placed, I may remark
By that young varmint for a lark
That wicked pin.

Act 4.
It was a man
Of Brobdingnag proportions he
He weighed full twenty-two stone, three
He sat down, in a careless ease
In that old chair. Then, on the breeze
Arose a yell, and in the air
A foot or so beyond the chair
With words of wrath that upward sped
And brought the plaster on his head
Uprose that man.

Act 5.
It was a fight
A gruesome sight it was to see
That struggle for supremacy
And first the lad was uppermost
And then the man would have the boast
And finally, the elder won
And shouts were heard, as one by one
Like postman’s vigorous rat-tat-tat
The strokes fell full on where he sat
After the fight.  
The end