Now dusk has fallen over Earth, I sit
And try to count my worldly gains again.
So while my stocks are full and free from blight
In twisted thoughts I can delight
To think of potions, balms, but not to cure –
To give them pains and alms and shakes!
This realm is mine, here to stay - forever.
To reject requests … ‘Why, me? Not ever!’
I crush and mix and boil and stir, I grind
And toss and hand-tools whirr. The clash of dish
And cup and tool – a din to lure and bait -
And fool.
The ladies grin and sing my praise, they know
I know their needs and more. But when they tire
Of their spouse, they plead, they beg, they say ‘Do more.’
But when a price becomes too dear, this weight,
This guilt becomes too hard to lug alone -
They turn in spite and clean their hands in fear,
They make their hatred very clear. To be a fixer,
To be an aide, to be an old crone, or hidden maid,
To have the whole wide world suspecting you -
What, pray tell, are you to do?
Armchair Poetry 