The setting for this my tale, Which I'd rather set in braille, Is a town famous for its salt, (And occasional common asault). I was there to purchase a picture, Not receive a woman's stricture, After ten pints of rubbish port, I sat on a chair for brief support. This chair was made of rafia and dust, When sat upon it would combust, Having fallen to pieces twice before, But never to a gentleman's guffaw. So i sat by broad and handsome behind, Coated in a gentleman's rind, And 'lo the chair did fail, And backwards this fat chap did flail! The chair was situated in a hotel, Patronised by those in suits of shell, It appeared this chair of antique condition, Which had suffered a back fat demolition, Was a local feature of repute, By those in 'forementioned suit, I felt the shame of my class, As I picked the splinters out of my arse, To be held before a peroxide visison Who rightly poured forth her derision. Of a bunch of chinless wonders, Who beset her town with blunders, Such as the wrecking of priceless chairs, And the perming of frizzled hairs. I left the town, or was I chased? Either way I made great haste, And now each time I say a prayer, When I sit next to a chav in a chair.