|
Come, random hoover. Why do you sit there?
Not sucking up dust or old bits of hair?
Where is the majestic roar of your kind,
Which so often makes you so easy to find.
Your function, forever, if not dirt existed,
May be pain as a back-scratcher, to those tightly fisted.
Or perhaps as an efficient alternative to goats...
Sucking in mess and cleaning old coats...
Not eating our curtains, or messing en-mass,
Not bleating annoyingly, not eating our grass!
But why do you sit there, all cold and alone,
Not quite plugged in, as is clearly shown.
Perhaps if the socket was in reach of your cable,
Then you could continue, cleaning carpet and table.
But until that day comes, there you shall wear,
Come, random hoover. Oh why just sit there?
But then, random hoover, though nice is your poise,
I remember quite often you making a noise.
Drowning out the music, CDs and all songs,
How often I thought you stayed on far too long.
And furniture was moved, to clear your clean path,
Often I wept in the dustless aftermath.
For mess I can like, and of dirt I am fond,
When it's my junk, I quite like it, from me it was spawned.
When you come to 'clean', and mess up my squaller,
I oft would come yelling, and loudly would holler.
I would devise all manners of schemes and strange plans,
To break you apart, with none but my bare hands.
So please, random hoover, now that I have spoken,
Just sit and be quiet, or soon you'll be broken...
Or maybe I'll just sell you, to the kids down the street.
I'm sure to many pavements, and lamposts you'd greet.
As you were thrown about, and ridden down hills,
I'm sure the 'nice' kids would seek plenty of thrills!
For many new sports have now been created,
Where riding of hoovers is oft instigated.
And others where irons can play a key role,
Ironing things through many car windows and holes,
Where people may trek up a mountain or cliff,
To instead get some ironing done in a jiff.
But back to the point, random hoover, please go,
Or else should I bury you deep in the snow?
For dear random hoover, as much as I love you,
I wish from my expressions you'd just take a clue.
For now, you no longer stand by that cheap table,
Sitting without power, due to your short cable.
Now you're in pieces, crammed in the bin,
No longer shall you then challenge my din.
For now you are silent, and shall so remain,
For now, random hoover, your chassis is slain.
And never again shall my peace be thus broken,
Until random hoovers come anew, I have spoken.
Copyright Steven Taylor 2004
All Rights Reserved
|
|
