Dear Mom, I have some information that is rather grave.
I got it in a very urgent call.
The hospital laboratory said I must be brave,
In order to avoid demise and pall.
The doctor on the line said, “I have never seen a list
Of triggers and of risk factors like yours.”
I’ll save you all the details Mum, I’ll just tell you the gist:
He’s said that I’ve got allergies. To chores.
“No dishes,” he commanded. “No laundry,” he prescribed.
I’m sure you’ll see that this affliction stinks.
“No vacuuming,” I promised. “No mops,” I sadly sighed.
“No cleaning up of toilets or of sinks.”
I know the outlook’s dreadful, whatever shall we do?
I’ll miss the mowing, polishing, the broom.
I ‘spose that’s it for me, Mum, I’m feeling extra blue,
You’ll find me watching TV in my room.
There once was a small toddler, just two or three years old,
And though he loved to sing and dance and laugh,
His very fav’rite pastime, his hobby number one
Was dropping random things into the bath.
He’d splash in tubs of butter. He’d splosh in tubes of paint.
He’d dunk his toys, his books and several rocks.
And when, at last, his Mom or Dad came ambling up the stairs,
They’d see the bath three-quarters full of socks.
“Oh Christopher,” they’d mumble, grabbing cans of peas and beans,
“Why do love to make such dreadful mess?”
But all young Chris would do was point and open up his mouth.
“I made,” was all he’d say, no more, no less.
But then one day, he hit that age when words weren’t such a chore.
His Mom took in his mess, her eyes adroop.
“Oh Christopher, why are you such a nuisance,” Mom just moaned.
“But Mom!” said Chris, eyes sparkling. “I made soup!”