I wasn't always a table cloth.
I began as a window model.
The sleekest and most beautiful;
Just the right size, the perfect hue.
And that’s when she came
The small charming lady,
Said I had caught her eye
And that I would fit her design.
Thus, it happened that I
To a new home came.
For a few hundred rupees
I was more than happy to please
A dear young lady
Who said she’d dress me up.
Make me up perfect
As a gift to her niece.
She worked and worked
Day after dreary day
Till upon my belly
In perfect symmetry, lay
Two sisters at the foot of
Their dear old granny’s chair.
On the four corners of my being
Were four pandas drooling.
But oh! The wicked niece
Locked me into a dusty cupboard
And left me there erode
By the mold and cold and
I remained shut up and closed
In there, until I grew old.
My spirits gleamed no longer
My skin shone no more.
No one, although, knew
The family better than I
For what seeped into the closet
Got soaked into my yarn, like dye.
The niece died, the house was let.
Out came the dust covered I,
Or pardon me, ear.
My journey at the second home begins here.
At the back of a venerable couch
I lay sprawled. I had been
Washed and cleaned and
Ironed and preened.
But I was old. And an aged
Companion I had found.
This was, however, the house
Of a certain working bachelor.
Soon enough his wife arrived.
All rosy and slender and bright.
She reminded me of my days of yore
At the window of a humble shop.
From the couch I was snatched
And on the table I was laid.
Back to a place where
The family drama was played.
There I lie, happy and comfortable
Hopefully, till I die. You know,
I did have tragedy one day.
A corner of me burnt away
When the lights went out and
A candle was placed on me
The wax cracked, it fell over
To its side. The candle died.
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