Tuesday, 8 April 2014

Poem: The Mop

Poem thirteen (some humor)

The mop
Was playing
With the floor

I told him (husbands!)
Women get angry
When you
Lipstick the floor

Make sure
You have bleach
In your bucket

That is my wife
She feels all germs
Will be gone to heaven

Forgive us God for this killing

So where did this
Flu of hell come from

Now my dear
You can't put the world
Under your mop of bleach
That floor belongs to God

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