The Runner

Now here's a thing I can't work out
Its purpose dumbfounds me
It makes no sense but it's just what's done
Yet I still struggle to see

By my front door is a long long mat
We call it 'a runner'
It protects the carpet underneath
From mucky shoes in bad weather

So the perfect carpet that lays beneath
Never sees the light of day
Its own purpose now obsolete
While the runner has its way

So if the runner was lifted
A gleaming patch of carpet would show
A different colour now to the other threads
Set apart by its unused glow

Even if the queen came to visit
Popped along for her afternoon tea
We STILL couldn't remove the runner
As it would show up the rest you see

So explain to me if you understand
What on earth is the point of it
This glorified shoe wipe door mat
That steals the thunder from my carpet!