The chairs for the wedding, vary, greatly,
Some stand tall, “serene and stately”,
Ready for some, more grand, occasion,
Firm of joint, and sound of rail,
Their polish sparkling, like their conversation,
Too loud, beside their country cousins,
Slightly wormed, and rather frail,
Trying to mingle, look the part,
Beside the well used, everyday dozens,
Clean and neat and sound of seat,
Straight forward, useful, stout of heart.
Some are split about the splat,
With no desire to stand and chat
And others, lumpy round the springs,
Make conversation based on things,
Competing to impress their fellows,
Regency, in golds and yellows,
Rosewood dense and strong, unyielding
Imagining the power they’re wielding
Arises from some greater merit
Than their ash made peers inherit
Forgetting ash made Piers’s plough
And fired the arrows from Robin’s bow.
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