O, to ye old couch, to whom I must leave by the roadside in the impending move to my new home in the city of Brooklyn, ye have served me well. Who is older than dirt and is certainly older than me, who was present in my parents’ home upon their purchase of their first house in Pennsylvania. Ye have been to many places, namely Pittsburgh, Cranberry, Hopkinton, Zelienope, and now Westchester, but your time with me is now over. For my fiancé has never loved you nor your brother, the love seat, you attract too much dog fur and neither of you are allowed in the new apartment. I have used ye as a kitchen table, a recliner, a bed, and of course a couch. Many nights after work I would collapse upon your worn, yet sturdy frame, exhausted and find your cloth welcoming. Where I usually park my rear is in the same spot I experienced my first kiss and that will not soon be forgotten. So to you! My couch, a drink to you! I will promise to try to not spill it on you when I go to take a sip.
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