They took his old red cushion
From his special fireside place
They said it was too shabby
And a positive disgrace
The clean new cover that they made
He didn’t like a bit
And no amount of coaxing would persuade him on to it
It had a different smell from all the rest
Could someone understand he liked the old one best
One lovely day he found it, where the salvage
stuff was thrown. His old red cushion cover
He had counted as his own.
And they found him sleeping on it where
he’d dragged it by the fire, with a look
upon his face like he had found his heart’s desire.
By (Nana) Vera Smalley