It was an heirloom, it meant a lot
It was part of Joe's heritage
Gnawed by a beaver or so it looked
With a sickly brown pallor
It ricked from side to side
Where craftsman's joints
Worn by time
Creaked and groaned
It spent time in a dentists
A beast of burden
That carried books, itself
Now rotten and decayed
I took the table
To nurse it back to life
Dressed its scorched skin
And filled and tended its wounds
I augmented the grain's pattern
By buffing and staining
Restored its stout structure
With glue and pins
Then sanded and lacquered
Polished still more
Added a resplendent trim
And British Standard safety glass
I wrapped and returned it to Joe
He said it looked okay
Before adding a coasterless cup
And a selfish right foot
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