Friday, 15 January 2016

The Truth In Socks.

My cast off socks betray me.
They tell the dreadful truth,
Portray me, sans airs and graces.
Firstly as a woman who has no regard
For style, since they're brown wool,
Knee length, men's, and bare the traces
Of gardening in the form of hard,
Dry goose grass balls. And secondly
As a woman whose house is full
Of sawdust, coal dust, ash and dog hair.
They just flop there
Casting aspersions.
And I wouldn't care
Only I am as worn out as they are
From cleaning, sweeping, Hoovering,
Bleaching, dusting, wiping, squirting.
To the casual eye
The house looks almost clean,
And yet they give the lie,
Lying there, impeaching.

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