Other than the fact of it,
There's no reason why I sit
Here upon a wooden chair,
Not on cushions otherwhere.
Some may now repine on moss,
Some on silk may turn and toss.
Some may concrete cot complete,
Using cardboard from the street.
Others find their tale has passed,
In a bleeping bed at last.
As these things are not my fate,
Here is where I sit and wait.