Tired From Work
Feeling tired, back home from work,
you missed your usual train,
the whole day was born to irk,
the events had made it plain.
Your secretary was late,
the 'phone did not stop ringing,
you could not negotiate
the deal that you were longing.
Having had lunch with a bore
you had also paid the bill,
you're as mad as a centaur
and feeling distinctly ill.
Strained and sore, home you arrive
with day's impedimenta,
sound out gravel on the drive,
you hesitate and enter.
You were the first to arise,
although you went to bed last,
and still with sleep in your eyes
you had prepared the breakfast.
You saw him off with a kiss,
handing his brolley and hat,
left alone, like a goddess
facing the single combat.
Beds are made and breakfast cleared,
washing machine is going,
through the house, carpets hoovered,
all this is done while you sing.
You have finished mundane chores
before your young child awakes.
then off to the high street stores,
at the lake play ducks-and-drakes.
Hurry back home yet again
even though your poor limbs ache
feed the cat and the Great Dane,
think of what surprise to bake.
One step, two steps and enter.
house is warm, it feels welcome;
stand stock-still in the centre,
look, everything's dinkum.
Slippers there waiting for you,
all's orderly 'cept yourself,
beyond belief but it's true
the mess has righted itself
Wife's on the sofa in shirk
lying there perfectly still,
doesn't know the meaning of work
and I guess she never will.
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