In the morning,
while I’m yawning,
in the bathroom I go,
to get on with the show.
In the mirror I do stare –
try to comb my shaggy hair.
Then I see what I just hate,
(and you’ll probably relate).
Why must it be my fate
to arrive when it’s too late?
There, to the right,
is such a yucky sight!
There’s more mess to the left –
it leaves me quite bereft
and my patience it does test.
My son was here before
and when he shut the door
(oh, how I do abhor),
squeezed from his fingertips
is a trail of slimy zits!
He likes to pop them, squish!
But my problem is this:
He doesn’t recognise
his actions scandalise
my sense of decorum
in this private forum.
He’s got pimples in his dimples;
he’s the apple of my eye,
but it makes me want to cry,
for his acne is not dry.
Now I must apologise,
for I’ve been telling lies.
My son is NOT to blame –
he wants to clear his name.
This time it’s not HIS crime.
The mess wasn’t made by him;
’twas made by my hubby, Jim,
who brushed his teeth and splattered
toothpaste like nothing mattered.
Then he just walked away;
no wonder I’ve turned grey.
The mirror does not lie –
my men just do not try
to clean up their acts.
These are the sad facts.
|
| Writing Prompt |
Write a humorous or silly poem about something you dislike. Any style of poetry is welcomed. Length is up to you. See announcement for ideas. |
|
