Mother's Trip To California
Poem By Herbert Nehrlich
We packed with care her special dress
her just washed face showed heavy stress,
she is, you know how mothers are,
now in the air, her aim is far.
Her son is getting truly hitched,
a union ready to be stitched
by thread of silk, so it will last
forever gone a single's past!
Two kittens, Hamilton and Conner
will take their place and do the honour,
to sprinkle things (let's hope it's flowers)
throughout the house, at certain hours.
From here, Down Under, it's a pity
WE HAVE TO WORK, which is quite shitty,
there's many dishes in the kitchen,
the neighbours hear young Kevin bitchin'
the water needs to be made hot
inside that bloody coffeepot!
Hair from the dogs drifts through the air
and laundry items do want care,
dogs do their thing not on command,
(they act as if their food is bland) ,
and there are doors and windows too
to keep the birds from turning blue.
They shiver in their metal cages,
instructions cover several pages,
on how the washer operates
and Kevin longs to see his mates.
The moment work piles up he leaves
which sees me ironing shirt sleeves.
There may be something on TV
but no one home to serve us tea
or bring, to warm our bones and skin,
some beer and even Gordon's Gin.
If I remember, there's enough.....
which fridge? This question may be tough.
Too bad the dogs aren't trained to get
our liquid spirits. Any pet
ought not be left to egotism,
it clashes with our narcissism.
It's cold at night if we neglect
to close all windows. We respect
that Mother Nature can be frigid,
her sheer determination rigid,
so we are on a learning curve
10 days she's gone and who will SERVE
two nearly starving men at home?
They say that many roads reach Rome
but when it comes to household chores
when men must labour on all fours,
to keep the germs from taking charge
we need to hire us a Sarge
and one industrious foreign maid
who'd do the laundry, mop the slate
and keep us spoiled, well-fed and pampered
I ask you now, the one who tampered
with what I'd call our status quo,
he placed his boot on my big toe!
I think we'll go to bed at eight
that tactic may well cut the wait.
Ten days is really something else
by then a house with dogs and smells
will certainly require more
to reach the status from before.
You said the fourteenth, is that right?
It will be afternoon or night
perhaps the place will look attractive
we'll see about our interactive
and well-considered short cut plan.
We'll scrub the crusted frying pan
splash vinegar on all the tiles
while she is counting fly-by miles.
But one important fact emerges:
Next time she gets those travel urges
we may just jeopardize the deal
and introduce a different spiel.
There is, and we admit it freely,
a brilliant logic in this, really.
Domestic chores are NOT for man,
there ought to simply be a ban.
A woman's place, it is ingrained,
the Gods themselves would have ordained,
that it is near the kitchen sink.
Man's fingers do not fancy pink,
and blisters on our hairy shins?
Let's get our girls on VITAMINS!