Mount Ironing, you bastard!
My deplorable Everest,
the seemingly unconquerable
clothing conquest,
I look up to the heavens,
I wonder if this is a test,
I want a hug, I give a shrug,
I suppose I’ll do my best.
Sorting through the crinkled,
wrinkled wrongdoing,
I fight back tears and rising fears
of the futility eschewing,
the impossible likelihood
of completing the task, it
looks like a war-zone
in this blasted basket.
It almost hurts to see the shirts
and trousers in abundance,
but the excuses to procrastinate
have finally met redundancy,
so I set the iron to steam,
the dream of pressed clothes, dawning,
but then I think, to hell with it,
I’ll do it in the morning!