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Mrs Scrubbit!!!Oh dear me and sugar plumbs, poor Glyn is off again! Pulling out the furniture, she really is a pain! Drags at this, drags at that, duster in her hand! She does this every Sunday; it's always, always planned! If it's not - nailed to the floor, that gets dragged out too! And if it isn't sorted out, oh blimey, what a to-do! The windowsills are scrubbed every ruddy Sunday, Then it starts all over again - every bloody Monday! A flick of the duster everywhere, and bleach upon the table, Glyn scrubs the lot; don't leave a spot, cos she's so unstable! Everything has to be spotless; cos she's a fussy one! Oh cor blimey and sugar plums, Sunday's aint no fun!! So be sure when I visit her one fine day! It will be a weekday, when I won't be in the way! Cos she would drag me out and across the floor! Oh Glyn, please we can't take no more! Cos you've rubbed the colour off the walls, And bleached the paint off in the halls! The cookers lost the sparkle it had! She rubbed it off, now aint that sad! The ornaments have been polished away! And the dust is checked every bloody day!! The hoover is as clean as a whistle too! In fact, her bungalow's like brand-spanking new! The black leather suite she scrubs - is now cream! The whole bloody bungalow's squeaky clean! She's rubbed the grain right out of the wood! And now the floors slippy, and not very good! Cos the grips all gone, oh woe is me! All this cleaning puts me off me tea! If you're not nailed to the floor…God help you! Cos she's sure as hell gona scrub you too! The patterns gone of the ruddy mat! And one day she even had a little cat! But the cat got wise to her cleaning Sunday! So the wise little bugger simply ran away! And now we have to walk on eggs shells in Glyn's! Cos her cleaning always bloody well wins! So the moral of this tale so true; Is keep your clothes clean whatever you do! Cos the minute she sees them; this is true… They'll be in the washer, just like you! As only Mrs Scrubbit can do! Poetry Ad-Free Upgrades Vote for this poem
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