Tonight I sit and try to write,
I'm tired and my pants are tight.
I wish to clean and fuss about,
But here I sit, without a doubt.
The dining table's piled high,
With Scrabble, pizza box, and tie.
Three cashmire sweaters on three chairs,
Are set to dry and put on airs.
The dishes, no, they are not done,
For doing dishes is not fun.
In the den, the sound of golf,
If I had energy, I'd turn if off.
The living room is scattered with
Magazines, papers and one myth.
In the bedroom clothes are strewn,
This happened in the afternoon.
The basement I just will not enter,
Until I get a cleaning mentor.
The backyard has it's share of dew,
The kind that comes from doggy, too.
The downstairs bath is left unscathed,
Because it has no place to bathe.
But lo! Upstairs it's full of grime,
With children bathing all the time!
I've books in piles here and there,
To entertain me in my chair.
The pillows need a major fluff,
To puffy up their inner stuff.
The rugs are lying in a heap,
They won't lay flat, for they are cheap.
On the porch out front flowers falter,
Due to a sad lack of water.
The back porch has a new machine,
For getting all our clothes real clean.
The married children left today,
To go to houses far away.
Still here is Youngest Son with me,
Most likely through eternity.
The mess and mayhem is now mine,
I'll toil to get this place to shine.
But at this very real moment,
I'll tell you what this little poem meant.
It kept me from cleaning house,
Or writing 'bout the resident mouse.
I've many rooms to spic and span,
But frankly, that's not in my plan.
In the time it took to write this ditty,
I could have made my house look pretty.