Mould - Poem by Ian McArthur
(I think everyone gets conscripted once in their life to clear out a disused old room at some point)
That bathroom's mould is thick and black
Though I wipe it away it keeps coming back
Not Dettol or bleach will make it subdue,
It's under the paint and will keep coming through.
Absolutely nothing at all seems to kill it off,
Once even attacked it with a kalashnakov.
It's ugly and snug and ruins the mood
Doesn't give a crap, that wall is its food.
That bathroom has a squatter,
a spotter and blotter.
Its own grey stairs on the wall
are its proudly worn shawl
each flake of the paint
shows extent of the taint.
I'm not sure what to do,
Next door to a fungal zoo!
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