I am the ottoman.
As if anyone cares.
I feel so unloved.
I am rife with despair.
You say “What a great couch” or
“Your table – it’s neat!”
Yet when it comes down to me,
I’m just a place for your feet.
Half of you think I’m a
stool or divan – the other
half ends up
spelling me wrong.
No one cares I have roots
from a long ago date
when the Ottoman Turks
gave me fabrics ornate.
The English, they saw what the
Turks had created, and called
me an ottoman, as
“footstool” was dated.
The Egyptians were fun,
Oh they loved me, too –
I graced everyone’s home,
from the pharaohs to fools.
I was loved by the Romans,
adored by the Greeks – but when
I made my way to Europe
my future got bleak.
The climate was nasty,
the humidity no good.
It destroyed my whole family
by wrecking our wood.
I enjoyed a brief bout in the
early 1800s, when the
onset of design fairs
brought attention like thunder.
I was oohed, I was ahhed as the
greatest thing yet – I was
spruced up with leather
and sold as a set.
My dear friend Mr. Chair kept me
company as a pair – but alas my
15 minutes disappeared
in thin air.
That’s not fair! I declare
as we bring sweet relief.
Just give us a chance — we’ll
sweep you off your feet.
Give the ottoman the love it deserves – head down to Laurie’s today!
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