Mock Epic: The War Of The Unwashed Dishes Poem by ashok jadhav

Sing, O Broom, stiff-bearded veteran of dust,
Of clash domestic, mighty yet unseen,
When peace was lost to plates and idle hands,
And chores, long shunned, rose up to claim their due.
At noon's dull hour, when hunger's ghost had fed,
The table stood in ruin—cups askew,
Plates smeared with sauces of forgotten feasts,
Spoons lying prone like warriors after fall.
The Sink, vast basin of accumulating shame,
Groaned under loads no tide had dared to cleanse.
Then spoke the Mother, keeper of the laws:
"Let order rise; let hands be called to work."
Her voice rang out, both tender and severe,
As thunder wrapped in cotton calm and care.
The Father stirred, adjusting throne and phone.
"Soon, " quoth he, "I rest from labors grave."
The Son looked down, studying the floor,
Feigning great interest in its ancient cracks.
The Daughter fled—swift-footed—homework raised
Like shield to ward off summons of the sink.
Accusations flew like arrows tipped with blame.
"Not mine! " "I washed them last! " "I just arrived! "
Old grudges rose from weeks and months before,
Of bins not taken, floors not duly swept.
The Broom and Mop lay waiting, grim and still,
Like weapons cursed to wake when named aloud.
At last, the Mother struck a fatal blow:
"I'll do it all—remember this well."
Silence fell, more deadly than her rage.
The guilty shrank beneath that sacred sigh.
Shamed, the Son advanced with towel raised high.
The Daughter followed, plates in trembling arms.
The Father rose, heroic—too late still—
To claim the bin and march it to the gate.
Thus chores were done in treaty, not in joy.
The Sink lay clear; the counter shone once more.
Yet know this truth, O Reader wise in homes:
Such wars are never ended—only paused.