From a very early age
I’ve labelled everything
From music, clothes and movies
To books and filling
I categories people
By styles that suit them best
I imagine all their houses
to put theory to the test
I’ll give you some examples
“Blaire” is beige corduroy
My mum is Marks & Spencer’s
And “Bush” a country boy
Eminem is trailer trash
The queen would be antique
And up until just recently
I was Shabby Chic
I made this observation
And saw my mortal sin
When I noticed that in all my rooms
Ikea had moved in
It startled me at first you see
Because I’ve always thought
Ones personality reflects
In things that one has bought
So if this is the case of it
I have gone to pot
From exquisite work of art
To white Formica rot
It looks great if it isn’t moved
Or man handled too much
Its hidden imperfections
Aren’t seen unless you touch
So is this what I’ve come to be
Shoddy workmanship
A piece of make-do furniture
That will end up at the tip
I don’t believe this can be true
I have far too much class
I’m Shabby Chic through and through
Ikea’s in the arse
I’m not Swedish either.
Scarborough Gypsy
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/shabby-chic-meets-ikea/
