I’m just a lowly, humble rug,

Prostrate upon the floor,

And people walk all over me,

But that’s what rugs are for.


I’m taken out, sometimes, it’s true,

And beaten with a stick.

I don’t think I deserve it,

But it’s just because I’m thick.


My owners call the doctor out,

He tends me for a while;

He washes me and touches me up,

And soothes my twisted pile.


My uncle’s a fitted carpet.

He covers a whole room,

But my size was preordained at birth

Even in my mother’s loom.


My cousin flies around the world,

But he’s a Persian rug

I’m just left alone down here,

‘Though I’ve got the travel bug.


My owners seem attached to me,

Don’t think they’d let me stray

They’ve even bought some non-slip grip;

In case I slip away.


I know it could be worse for me

I could have been a mat.

People wipe their feet on them

And where’s the fun in that?


I really try to accept my fate,

And vow to be content.

But my dreams are filled with Arabian nights,

And of lounging in a Bedouin tent.


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