I have no time to stand and stare
And yet I do all day;
There’s nothing clean to use or wear:
I’ll throw it all away.
The trashman’s come, the trashman’s gone,
The trash accumulates,
The dirty dishes pile upon
The counter, and the plates
Are sighing to be scrubbed and sorted
As are knives and spoons,
My plans to do it all was thwarted
Back in distant moons.
I stand and moon about the jobs
I should have done in time;
Instead procrastination robs
And all I do is rhyme.
Come Muse of Housework, unto me
And fire me with grit
To face my fate and not to flee
Unto the poet’s pit!
Ahah, I hear the doorbell ring!
It’s creditors! Oh dear!
Those envelopes you saw me fling
To see the counter clear
Of papers, checkbooks, papers, plants,
And on them all, my cat…
Oh Lord, please see the good Muse grants
A housekeeper… Yes! …. That!
LRH 10.11.13
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem