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Poem

Some people are scared of spiders,
Others are scared of lightning,
But to me, it somehow seems,
My boyfriend is scared of the ironing.

The heat from the iron’s hot plate,
Cause beads to form on his head
And the thought of folding all those clothes,
Clearly fills him with dread.

I sometimes think it would be nice,
If he’d give his own pants a press,
But his cheeks drain at the sight of the board,
And it isn’t worth the stress.

And I love my boyfriend,
And so I choose not to mither,
And end up doing the ironing myself,
(He’s not keen on the hoovering either!)

Maybe perhaps for All Hallows Eve,
I’ll scare my boyfriend to pieces,
By adorning the house with crumpled clothes,
And leave him to remove the creases!

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