Warning: The following content may contain traces of literature.
The Ballad of the Humble Corner
Some models are dragons,
With scales and glowing fire,
They fill the feeds with wonder,
And gather much admire.
They pose in perfect lighting,
Their fame spreads far and wide,
While comments, likes and praises
Come rolling in like tide.
But mine’s a simple corner,
For skirting boards at home,
No mighty wings, no battle cries,
No distant lands to roam.
It sits between two trim pieces,
Quiet, straight and small,
And hopes that nobody notices
It’s even there at all.
No child will point and whisper,
“A masterpiece! How grand!”
No guest will ask to see it,
Or shake the maker’s hand.
Yet when the dragon’s broken,
And the octopus is gone,
The humble little corner
Keeps quietly carrying on.
Through winters and through summers,
Through vacuum, mop and broom,
It faithfully remains there,
Forgotten in the room.
And that, dear fellow makers,
Is where the irony lies:
The better that it functions,
The less it wins surprise.
For functional designs are cursed,
Or blessed, it would appear:
When they fail, everybody talks.
When they work… they disappear. 
Dedicated to this little guy:
