Chores

The alarm clock snaps at a quarter to six,
The first of the day’s many problems to fix.
I look out the window—it’s pissing it down,
Soaking the tarmac all over the town.
The damn car is sat on the kerb with a flat,
Or a blown-out bulb—I’ve no time for that.
It’s a tricky business, a fiddly chore,
Wrestling a jack in a cold downpour.
​
Work's ten hours of graft, and the journey as well,
Three hours of commuting—a solitary spell.
By the time I walk in and put down my keys,
My wife wants her bed, and some quiet and peace.

She wants to be off-duty as soon as I’m back,
While I’m left to pick up the domestic slack.

And on days when I’m home, there’s no extra rest,
I’m still putting the "shared" school run to the test.
We get the kids ready, we’re a team, so they say,
But I don’t get a lie-in on my working home day.

I’m a traditional man with the wrench and the drill,
But I’ve also inherited the Fairy Liquid skill.
I’m the hunter-gatherer and the scrubber of floors,
Covering both sides of the gender-role wars.
A bit of a domestic goddess, I suppose you could claim,
If a goddess wore hoodies in a house that's a shame
​
I fetch down the laundry left up in the bath,
Negotiating the stairs like a mountain-side path.
The clean laundry is scattered like confetti on the floor,
By careless searching for clothes they like more
Litter and crumbs on the kitchen floor,
Dropped every day, clothes tags, apple core.
To the rest of the house, it’s a bore to be neat,
So they leave the "theatre" for me to complete.
​
The sinks are a horror, they’re full and greasy
I guess that's another job for me
I’ll tackle the plates and the plug hole skank,
There's old food in the bottom it's totally rank.
The cat’s left a stinky surprise in the tray,
A biological gift to end a long day.
The bins are a tower, an overstuffed mess,
That I haul to the street with a quiet finesse.
​
I’m the only one out where the brambles are growing,
Pulling weeds out and the lawn needs mowing.
I'm feeling the strain, and feeling it's showing
While the drains are all choked and the pipes are o'erflowing.
It’s those ‘flushable’ wipes—may they rot in the ground—
That I’m pulling from pipes where they shouldn’t be found.
If I’m home for the day, I’m the king of the hob,
A steak or a roast or a Bolognese job.
I don’t iron the shirts—nobody’s that brave—
We’ll all just be wrinkled from cradle to grave.
​
The garden is half-done, the car has its light,
But the bathroom is still a disgusting sight.
I’ve had a quick brew, but the kitchen is still,
And the mould on the ceiling is testing my will.
The washing-up mountain is standing its ground,
And the laundry is simply just moved around.
​
The house has gone quiet, the chaos is dim,
But the cup of endurance is full to the brim.
I’m not ready for sleep, I’m not ready for bed,
With a list of "to-dos" swirling round in my head.
The kitchen is filthy, the morning is near,
And nothing is settled, and nothing is clear.

I'm not ready for bed, just a bottle of red.

Brit pop, guitars, synth, drums