Doing the wash at our house is impossible—
And I oughtta know, cuz I've tried;
There's ranges of mountains of laundry uncrossable
That prob'ly have no "other side".
I wonder where all of it comes from? Not me;
I wear the same clothes for a week
(And none of the people I regularly see
Have ever complained that I reek).
Just think of the soap and the bleach we must buy,
And all of the faberic softener,
To whiten and brighten and unputrefy
(Okay—so I oughtta change oftener).
The grocery store will have shelves that are bare
When finally we've purchased enough;
And likewise our purses will have room to spare
After we've paid for our stuff.
And how will we cart it all homewards again?
We'll have to rent two giant trucks
Complete with a couple of big, burly men
To tote all our Downy and Lux.
The washing itself will take thousands of hours
Of cycles of normal and delicate
(And meantime, the shock of their ice-cold showers
Makes even th' angelicate yellicate).
And never will all those clothes fit in the dryer—
So think of the clothesline we'll need:
Cuz all of the space between here and sun's fire
We'll fill with silks, cottons, and tweed.
But when will we finish it? Never, I say;
So why should we even begin it?
And hampers just fill up again anyway.
(Ever seen one without a thing in it?)
But all of a sud, I heard jewelry jangle—
Oh, no! It's the Queen of the Laundry!
She threatened to shove me head-first through the mangle,
Resolving my laundary quandary.
I thought doing wash at our house was impossible;
I guess I just couldn'ta been wronger.
I found me some helpers who're both young and bossable—
It didn't take forever: it took longer.
— O. Laundromouse (aka The Sudsy Guru)