A poem on Chairgate '09:
Day 48 and all through the work-house
Not a bete noir was stirring, not even her blouse.
My chair it was tucked from her sight with much care
It hopes that it wouldn't be taken from my lair.
Interior designers nestled all snug in their Keds,
While visions of other floors danced in their heads.
Our nurse casually dressed like my chair in its cube,
Was using her stethescope assessing chairs far less rude.
Then out on the aisleway there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my chair to see what was the matter.
And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the ceiling
The music of Ireland, jigging and reeling.
As I drew up my head, and was turning around,
From the tiles nearby me came a Leprechaun sound.
He fell from a height and on my desk - splat!
While saying, "I heard you've had quite a spat!"
He spoke native buzzword, a corporate faerie it seemed,
And he promised to empower my chair as he beamed.
He sprang right away, as he drew out of sight,
"Happy St. Patrick's Day to all, and to all a good night!"