I can’t remember when we got you
I tried to document your life.
The only thing that I know for sure
My parents gave you to me in 1995.
That means they had you way before
And used you in their home.
But then I moved to Georgia
And took you off to Rome.
During three years of college ministry
You held up girls aplenty
Then went to live with my sister
When I left the country.
My nephew’s spit up stained your seat
And food spilt on your cushions.
We knew to take you to seminary
Your limits we’d be pushin’.
A khaki cover gave you a fresh new look
And then it changed to red.
New babies used you to prop up and see;
Memom used you for a bed.
Then Saturday KB determined
That day would be your last.
I left the room for just one minute
And KB moved real fast.
The grape juice seeped into the foam
And stained your frayed and faded threads.
One quick phone call to “Dr. Dad”
And you’ve been pronounced dead.
And now you sit down in the dark
Waiting in the basement of our home.
The Salvation Army will try to salvage you
And IKEA, here we come!!!
Good times. Great Fun. Good Couch.