In Praise Of The Washing Machine Man Poem by Sheena Blackhall

With dirty laundry high's a weather vane
And nothing fresh to wear next to the skin
Our washing machine decided to abstain

Flooding our kitchen like the Spanish Maine
We chopped its power off like poor Anne Boleyn
And all its faults went gurgling down the drain

The washing machine man entered. Broke the chain
Of desperation, fleet as Errol Flynn
Fitted a newer version, stopped the pain

Of stinking socks, and sheets with sweaty stain
No tramping in the bath, then wring, not spin
Our home was sanitary once again