He’s stuffed a chair on every street,
or hassocks on which to put your feet.
A fainting couch for Ms Récamier,
looking Grecian but really fey.

A modern Egg for Madmen there,
Took ten thousand hand stitches to be fair;
An Eastlake love seat whose threads were bare
Was given new life, it’s only fair!

Mattresses made of coir and hair
His long needle made them square,
And before he bought his trusted Pfaff,
He had to keep a larger staff.

You take for granted what you see,
But behind the saddle, the sofa, the seat,
Is a person who understands upholstery,
Who has a flair for passementerie!

Tassels thrill him with delight,
and not the ones that twirl in the night,
An unusual man I’ve got as my mate
Because he talks of gimp when on a date!

Real upholsterers still spit tacks
And use hide glue to mend frame’s cracks
He knows that biscuits make tufted backs,
His best friend’s are puppies and cats!

Upholstery conservators are a dying breed
The old skills falling out of fashion
But when you’ve sent new sofas to the dump
And you’ve paid a yen for the uncomfortable lump,
The foam’s collapsed, and left a lump,
And your family’s in a frump.
His trade will again be a needed deed,
And he’ll come racing on his white steed
Or you’ll be stuck in your cheap contraption.

For those of you who dare think twice
Who doubt his worth
Who’ll send them into dearth
It’s your buns who’ll pay the price!

~ by Kate and Mitchell Powell

American Antebellum Sofa

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