I bought what I thought was a chair.
Beautiful hickory, exquisite and rare.
The man who sold it, Fleet-Foot Sal,
Next to the factory by the canal.
Sal said it was made by his very own dad,
Who, I heard, went just a bit mad.
I took the chair home as a proud owner,
Admired its luster and down-to-earth toner.
Preparing to use it for the first time,
I baked oat cookies with a hint of lime.
While I was busy, kneading away,
The chair stirred slightly, let out a neigh,
Escope through the window without a trace,
While I was busy, stuffing my face.
Half of the dough made it into the oven,
And while they were there roasting in their coven,
Anticipating, I went back,
Saw what happened, let out a small quack.
So that’s what they meant with a crazy carpenter,
Shouldn’t have trusted the Cheat You Center.
Oh my sweet thing, my pretty hickory,
I was caught by Sal’s standard trickery.