The Flood
This evening in our flat there rose a flood
That made our rooms and entrance hall a lake
As unattended bath-taps churned the sud
Into a foaming torrent by mistake
Our darling daughter whom we shall not name
Had nonchalantly turned those bath-taps on
Before returning to some film or game
Or following the social pantheon
Behind her mobile phone she lay enthralled
Forgetful of the steaming waters’ rise
Which overflowed in bathside waterfall
And blitzkrieged our apartment in a trice
Too late the cry was raised and taps were closed
And towels press-ganged as mops then stemmed the tide
And floors as clean as if they’d been steam-hosed
Emerged pristine as all those cork-tiles dried
“All’s well that ends well” - wrote of old the Bard
Thus did our flood not clean our dusty flat?
Sadly not all; for as those tiles turned hard
The margin of each one grew thick and fat
Alas our hallway and our bedroom floors
That once were smooth and level, now did change
Into a row of bumps, as slowly soars
From crashed tectonic plates a mountain range
Copyright © Hatter Eggburn | Year Posted 2020
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