A poem about Washing

 

Dear washing pile why won’t you end?
You really are an unwanted friend.

The same shirts and Next boxers on display
I feel like I hang out with you every day

Cor, that washing machine is one hell of a guy
Without whom I would most likely die

This is the ‘dream’ I am living right?
Washing 20 lots of clothes day and night

Lenor, Fairy and Napisan my new drugs of choice
These garments treated like a Rolls BLOODY Royce

The washing bin is always looking smug and rotund
As though each of those clothes equalled to a pension fund

Enough of this rhyming ridicule and fun
There is another 79 loads to be done.

(A word from a mother – a washer woman – Book of Mum)

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