Would it kill you, just once,
would it take all of your power
to put your dishes in the dishwasher,
not the sink?
Obviously the machine is ready to receive them,
to why not spare me the ten thousand stoops
to place your endless stream of dirty dishes,
used once for a sip of water that you didn't even drink
all the way, in the slave machine.
And would it endanger your life or strain your manly strength
just beyond the point of aid to take your shoes off at the door?
They are covered in mud that you tramp across my freshly mopped floor.
I even used the Pinesol to erase the smell of yesterday's lavatory explosion.
Now look at the tracks you left behind,
dirty boot prints that smell of grease and gasoline.
How about next time you scrub the floor
and I trample on it with my army of rhinos to completely destroy
your hopes and dreams of a job completely done?
And for heaven's sake, please,
even if it takes your last ounce of willpower and pride,
stop throwing your dirty laundry in my face,
on my freshly cleared washroom floor.
You only wore those pants for five minutes
to go get some cigarettes from the gas station at 34,
so why are you telling me they are dirty?
Oh, I forgot, your manly grime.
You just want me to wash them so you can defile them one more time.
That's beer I smell on your shirt no doubt,
but I won't say a word about it,
seeing as how you wouldn't care.
Perhaps one of these days,
I will purposely break my own back
so that you have to hire a maid and all your money
would be sucked up into the endless dishes,
dirty floors, and clothes that she would have to wash.
Just because I am your wife doesn't mean I'm free slave-labor.
I said I would love and cherish you, care for you and submit to you
until death do us part, but this wasn't part of the job description.
Perhaps it is time death did us part.
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