The Washing Monster, And Friends Poem by Stevie Taite

The washing monster
How it grows
It's fed well
On our dirty clothes

Relentlessly
We do attack
But by the next day
It's grown back

He has a friend
That's equally vile
It calls itself
The ironing pile

The ironing pile
I don't even start
I bury its parts
Once I've torn it apart

And then as my body
Is hungry for clothes
Might give an iron lick
If it needs, I suppose

The washing up witch
Gets a boiling from hell
She's hard to ignore
So she doesn't last well

The dust and dirt devil
He spreads his self thin
Barely there, if I squint
So I can live with him
(for a while)