Oh, mountain of cotton, a towering white,
A testament to my messy, unkempt plight.
Socks with no pairs, a shirt stained with wine,
A symphony of chaos, a textile design.
I gather the garments, a wearying task,
With a sigh and a groan, my spirits I ask,
"Why must you torment me, pile ever so tall?
Is there no escape from this laundry's thrall?"
But then comes the scent of clean linens so bright,
A victory achieved, a feeling of light.
Folded and stacked, they await on the shelf,
A symbol of order, a win for myself.
I whir and I hum, I suck and I groan,
Through dust bunnies and crumbs, I diligently roam.
From carpet to rug, I conquer each space,
A tireless servant, with nary a trace.
But oh, how I yearn for a moment of peace,
To rest my motor, my struggles to cease.
Instead, I am forced to endure endless rounds,
Of dirt and of grime, on perpetually unsound.
Yet, I push onward, my duty I know,
For a clean home is bliss, and that much we both know.
So I'll keep on whirring, and sucking, and humming,
Until all is spotless, and the dust bunnies are drumming.
A sink full of plates, a mountain of bowls,
The remnants of dinner, a feast for the trolls.
They stare back at me, with greasy reproach,
A daunting reminder, of my cooking approach.
With soap and a sponge, I wage war on the grime,
A battle of wills, a struggle for time.
But victory comes, with a clatter and clang,
As the dishes are washed, and the water does hang.
And though I may grumble, and sigh with despair,
A clean kitchen brings joy, beyond compare.
So I'll face my foes, with a smile and a nod,
And conquer the dishes, with a grateful, clean God.