by Emily Horne 1/24/13
In my little world, I am in charge of clean socks.
You'll wash them yourself? To that I say bollox!
Huffing and puffing and blowing my house in.
Not a clean sock in sight, let's get out the violin.
Ok, I'll wash some, although the sock is arbitrary
I mean, I've washed 'em it before, it's not revolutionary
But, I've gone nuts, gone mad and about to shave a mohawk
But it's got so little to do with your dirty fucking sock.
I'm real, and I'm smart and I'm undeniably clever
I embrace each adventure and encourage endeavor.
I have more to give than I can even withhold
If I let it all out, it would grow tenfold.
But I don’t, 'cause I can't, 'cause there is dirt in my grout
and the kids need a bath and we are out of sauerkraut.
This damn laundry (along with your socks),
is 3 feet high and is unwilling to stop
Dishes, and dinner and the run-of-the-mill
Excuse me, sorry, do you have a sleeping pill?
This is the part of the poem where I make it okay
to eat the shit sandwich and spirit away
But I can't, so I wont, so at the end of this ditty
Your socks are still dirty, and I have no fucking pity.