In between the excitement,
The trouble and the strife,
I try to live the life,
Of a perfect little wife.
I dust and hoover at least once a month,
I even clean the floor,
I’ve tidied up the living room,
Once or twice or more.
I cook a meal from time to time,
I made a roast last week,
I even tried to bake a cake,
Should never have had a peek.
My mother would be proud of me,
I’ve kept the toilet clean,
Don’t pour old fat down the sink,
Even washed the Washing machine.
I’ve exercised the yearly task,
Of digging, through the fat,
Baked on the oven floor,
I’m really proud of that.
Although I say I’m getting,
On with this spousal lark,
I think I’m only grubbing,
In the darkest dark.
I don’t understand the ones,
That spend their life in grime,
I’ve got too much to do in life,
I haven’t got the time.
So when I say I’ve done,
The housework and the cleaning,
It isn’t that I’m lazy,
If you get my meaning.
There are adventures to be sort,
There are lots of things to do,
Like climbing up a mountain face,
And going to the zoo.
Being perfect is well and good,
If you’ve got the inclination,
But mother dear, I do declare,
I just don’t have your domestication.