Humor | Poetry | Writing
Housework Horrors
Confessions of a slovenly writer
My house is a dump. It’s beginning to smell, Cleaning and scrubbing aren’t things I do well.
Plates in the sink, worn socks on the floor, Strange lumps of goo and dog hair galore.
The shower is grotty, the walls are all slimy, There’s hair in the plughole, the mirrors are grimy.
My kitchen floor’s grubby, all covered in grass, The last time I cleaned it, I fell on my arse.
There’s mud on the sofa, the cushions, and carpet, The skirting boards need a good scrub with the Harpic.
I’ve never been fond of playing the housewife, I’d rather be reading or leading the good life.
But lately it’s worse, “But why?” You ask, puzzled. “Is it drugs, or fast food, or the wine you have guzzled?”
“It’s none of that, sweetie,” I grimly reply, “No vice have I started, I’m not going to lie.”
“I’ve started to write. It takes all my time. I’d rather tend prose than clean up the grime.”
My day is spent typing, I have to confess. Over each single letter, I cry and obsess.
I mutter and groan, I wail, and I mumble. The words shift about, I scream at the jumble.
Now I’m a writer, I polish each word. My house now comes second, all cleaning deferred.
