Life’s a bitch, then your cleaner quits,
said the spider behind my TV.
I looked at his copious cobwebby bits,
My dear fellow, I said, I agree.
Between working and sweating
and cooking and fretting
and washing and sleeping
and mending and weeping
and shopping and starting that novel –
tell me, when do I hoover my hovel?
Life’s a bitch, then your cleaner quits,
said the dust bunny, fluffing his fur.
I examined the tattered remains of my wits,
Mr Rabbit, I said, I concur.
The ironing’s piling,
I’m floored by the filing,
the clutter is crawling,
the kids are appalling,
the weeds are proceeding with malice –
tell me, when do I polish my palace?
Maybe now? asked a bug in my bed.
Oh all right then, good thinking, I said.