by 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