I was going to write about snow . . . but then decided I needed to compose something extemporaneously . . . with apologies to Robert Frost
Whose mess this is I think I know
His room is down the hallway, though.
He will not see me stopping here
To bend and lift, the trash to throw.
My lazy cat must think I'm queer
To pick up toys and jump with fear
At seeing bits of curdled milk.
A sniff will tell me, yogurt's near.
My son's a slob, the mess is deep,
but I have dusting, things to sweep,
And vacuuming before I sleep
And vacuuming before I sleep.
(oooh - you should see the glare my DS just gave me!)