Beanbag

You offer me a bean bag,

I choose to sit on the floor.

You offer me it again,

and I refuse that thing once more.


You shrug your shoulders

and sit down in your chair.

I stare at the bean bag

and wonder why I won’t sit there.


Is it because I’d rather be seated

on hard wood than

that awkward monstrosity?


Is it because I prefer

cold lumber on my arse

than ‘bean’s trying to fight gravity?


Is it because, I wonder,

why you’d spend that much money?

When you could have a second hand chair,

this thing isn’t clever or funny.


Why do I hate bean bags so?

Why can’t I let this hatred go?

It’s just not right, it’s not a chair

But, why the fuck do I even care?


I’d not use a water bed either,

some things just shouldn’t happen

I don’t want to spring a leak

whilst I’m in the midst of napping


So, no, I’m okay thanks,

I’ll just sit on the floor.

‘Cos a bean bag ain’t a chair

and now I’ll say no more.

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