Queen of Clean
Squeaky clean, squeaky clean—
no errant coffee ground nor bean
mars my kitchen’s pure hygiene.
My kitchen floor is so pristine,
of cleanliness, I am the queen.
But if you catch it in between
those days the cleaning girl has been
working her magic on the scene,
I do not brag. I do not preen.
I fear my house has lost its sheen.
I blame it on the dog, who’s keen
on dragging sand home from the beach
and brooms and dust rags I can’t reach.
So to you who daily teach
rules in fastidiousness, then preach
that cleanliness is right there next
to godliness, I’m clearly hexed.
Except for that one day a week
when I, too, am a cleanliness freak.