Or before bath's were invented.


Thin blue lines,
Washing day again.
Bath tub Infront of the fire,
First it was mum

The cleanest of the lot,
Then it was baby Abigail's turn.
I always hated that,
she always pissed in the pot.

Then it was Lilith my sister,
Three women in the family
Always seemed a lot.
Covered in so many smelly things,
She always perfumed the pot.

Then came greasy old Graham,
Laying tarmac was his one job.
After that it was coalminer dad,
That climbed into the tub.

I know that you must think I'm daft,
For some reason I don't feel I needed
A scrub.

Poetry by Alan J Ripley The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 60 times
Written on 2024-04-13 at 05:21

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