Just let me start this load of clothes
And then I’ll write a poem.
I posted one on April first,
And I gotta keep ’em flowin’.

Just let me get a little snack
And then I’ll get to writing.
I’m supposed to write on family
And that’s not too exciting.

Who wants to hear of Uncle Bart
And his port-wine birthmarked face,
Or the time the team of horses ran off,
Spooked, with old Aunt Grace?

If I uncrate the skeletons
And air the family linen,
There might be repercussions
From the crimes and quirks and sinnin’.

Just let me move that load of clothes
From the washer to the dryer,
And then I’ll really knuckle down
And try to get inspired.

We got preachers, we got atheists,
Church ladies by the dozen.
We got drinkers, we got smokers,
Agoraphobic cousins.
We got thinkers, we got athletes
And lunatics—who doesn’t?

We play trombones, and piano.
We can decorate a cake.
We write poems, we knit booties,
Cast a line into a lake.
We shoot deer, we shoot pool,
And we’d rather give than take.

Oops, I hear the dryer bell.
I’ve really gotta run.
I bet you’re just as glad as me
That this silly poem’s done.

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