A Carpet Tale Poem by sylvia spencer

Oh no not another stain on my carpet so red,
its times like these I wish I was dead.
When I was new I was laid out like a Queen, but
now I am ashamed to be seen.
I was born a carpet, the rich colour of gold but the
state of me now I look fifty years old.
Dinner partys, Grand Children, pets and wine all of
them have marked their place in time. Then what
makes it worse I get scrubbed with a spray,
but trufully that's just rubbing it in, not taking it away.
The foot marks by the door get scrubbed every week
but I wish the mistress would realise that my fibres are
weak.
The rug in the centre serves no purpose at all, only to
hide a wine stain that goes wall to wall.
When visitors come round it's the same old routeen a
good scrub with the shampoo, just to look clean.
A steam clean would be better than a soapy shampoo
at least it would prevent me from getting carpet flu.
Sneezing and coughing from Shake and Vac with tiny
particals getting lodged in my back.
I am a sad old carpet no one cares about me not even
the cat when she squats for a wee. Same old place being
scrubbed to death it's a wonder the mistress is not out
of breath.
I know she meens well this mistress of mine if only she
would stop spilling her wine.
Over the years I have changed colour from gold to red,
and that's the end of my tale, there's no more to be said.