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Out of the chair, flew this fine, yellow dust.
"What is this stuff?" I yelled out in disgust!
I pried, pulled and scraped at it, staples went flying,
Pliers, and screwdrivers the tools of my trying.
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Deeper and deeper I dug at the chair.
Yellow dust covered my clothes and my hair.
A mask and safety glasses would have been smart,
To protect my eyes, my lungs and my heart.
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The carnage was ugly. A mess I did make.
Rotten foam, torn up lining, tacks and a cake. (Not really, just needed to rhyme!)
I made twenty cents in the deal there's no doubt.
Like finding buried treasure amid a pile of gout.
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Now all that remains of this once loved chair
Is some wood and some springs and some slightly stale air.