Once upon a cottage, lonely
A girl did stumble, pale and homely.
In search of santuary from the Summer flurry,
She edged into the home so comely.
Nothing, now, compares with the shock
Of hearing the voice of some wood block.
She whipped 'round, jaw awide at what she'd found.
The low stool rose, quiv'ring on its stalks.
"I am no mere chair," the stool did say.
"Nor was I human in former days."
Its legs scrambled for grip, the seat then bowed and quip:
"So please don't stare at me with that face."
"Consciousness is burdensome,
"At times it is downright troublesome.
"You think I like the fact - the idea some wizard's smack
"Brought me to this life of such fun?"
"And not even smack like you're liable to think.
"Wizards get bored, out on sanity's brink."
The stool shuddered, then. Gathered, and ran:
"Only princesses should apply to that kiss of life thing."
The stool went on, to the girl's waning awe,
About new rain, leaves, and the coming of the saws.
It told her about strife. About furniture life.
And stuck her with a glare when she yawned.
"I'm sorry," she dismissively said.
"But it seems to me like you'd rather be dead."
The stool considered it, tried the size for fit.
But, surprisingly, shook its cushion instead.
"Life still is worth no recompense,"
The stool fairly glowed with this new found sense.
But before it could comment, the girl shrugged. Sat. Slept upon it.
So much, I guess, for intelligence.