The washing monster
How it grows
It's fed well
On our dirty clothes
Relentlessly
We do attack
But by the next day
It's grown back
He has a friend
That's equally vile
It calls itself
The ironing pile
The ironing pile
I don't even start
I bury its parts
Once I've torn it apart
And then as my body
Is hungry for clothes
Might give an iron lick
If it needs, I suppose
The washing up witch
Gets a boiling from hell
She's hard to ignore
So she doesn't last well
The dust and dirt devil
He spreads his self thin
Barely there, if I squint
So I can live with him
(for a while)
It certainly does bring a smile Stevie, and the older I get, the less I feel inclined to do. Great poem.
Oh, bless, it brought more than a smile, most of us can relate to this poem, just wonderful.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
It's a real skill to blame the washing! A woman's work/ lol