I'm not the first to say it
a woman's work is never done
it seems that after a day well spent
I'm back where I began
Picking up, wiping, putting away
everything in its place
its enough to drive one mad sometimes
trying to keep a tidy space
Its unfair to blame the children
I suspect I'd be just as bad on my own
For me a house is a place to be lived in
not a shrine or a museum, but a home
Yet how I love to see clean surfaces
all clutter tidied away
no piles of stuff or errant toys
lying around at the end of the day
But the truth is
when life is full, its impossible
to live the minimalist dream
kids and hobbies, the comings and goings
all leave a messy trail
So now when I'm picking up
for the hundredth time, when all is done
I remember that the strewn debris
is just the proof of a day of fun
And in the words of another
a motto to keep in sight
'A perfectly kept house
is the sign of a misspent life'
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