losing ground

I’m at war with my kitchen floor

I may want it bad but I’m scared flour wants it more.

I hold my ballonet broom ready to fight

But the crumbs in the corner aren’t ready to bite

The bullet just yet.

They’re fighters. Some are vets

left from the candy scandal in april.

Plenty are gone but my quotas still not fill.

I grab machine gun mop and kill them in droves

But many just retreat to the hideout under the stove.

I stare past crossfires into the dirt

But looking into the trenches I must avert

my eyes. The quantity therein is no longer disguised.

They’re old but with age they’ve only become more armed.

I know even Clorox gas will leave them unharmed.

I cry out to my forces it’s time to retreat.

Perhaps merry maids can help me makeup for this defeat

 

But not today.