I hate to do all the housework

It's totally boring and irks.

There's no sense , no reward in it

It is just a big load of sh***.

A normal day would happen this way:

I search for plates. They've all gone astray.

Oh, there they are, piled on the floor

In my sons' room, behind the door.

I pick them up, scrape off the food

open the dishwasher - I'm in a bad mood.

I don't pay attention, and what do you know

A fork attacks me, it is quite a show.

My knuckle is swollen, I go see my GP

For a tetanus jab, and a tablet or three.

He shakes his head, saying: "Let us not linger,

Because I will have to cut off your finger."

I say: "That's a bit drastic!"

But he shows me some plastic

In various colours and shapes

It seems that there is no escape.

I now have a limb in magenta red

It's the latest fashion - or so he said.

I saunter home and feel rather grand

with my fork war wound displayed on my hand.