In a dull London flat
Lives a skivvy they call the Gypsy
She will sweep all your floors
And clear away all your mess.
Everything will come right
If you only employ the Gypsy;
She can tell at a glance
That your house needs a good Spring clean.
She looked at my sink and said
That my dishes were all too dirty
And yes I knew in my heart
The mice had played there so free.
But she’ll come here no more
As I don’t want to employ the Gypsy
Now my house is dust free
And I’ll sack her today, no worries.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
She sounds like an old slag!