Box-Set Glue

My sister Bridget loves her widgets, the box-set goes beyond her digits, never mind, she is addicted, that's not what we predicted. To save money, she tries to convince, as no TV licence does she subscribe, but a million box-sets no word of a lie. It's ironing I need the boxes for, it piles up from the floor, her lies galore, we try to ignore. Twelve hours a day she watches gore, neglecting those at her core, she simply can't fit in anymore. But that's okay cause life's a chore, it's box-sets, so I'm not a bore, Hustle, Spook's behind closed door. NCIS, Gibbs isn't for me, nor is the notorious box-set Glee, It's Grey's Anatomy, that's fine with me. Bones, a forensic scientist I am, Shield is the agent I want to be, but ironing is my destiny. I shame myself through box-set guilt, instead I should be making a quilt, but on the sofa I tend to lilt. My son is home, husband too, there's no time for box-set glue, a family I know, we are but true.