Fiction, Poetry, Humor

Ironing

by: Stiubhard Og

I'm a man who like his leisure time, or, put in simple words
I'm a man who thinks that housework is strictly for the birds,
I wash my dishes weekly(ish), bath tidemarks don't distract me,
And I cleaned my fridge out just last year when a sausage roll attacked me,
There are lots of little household chores that I've often roundly cursed,
But of all the tedious, menial jobs the ironing is the worst.
I had a pile that took up quite a lot of bedroom floor,
And, o.k.,so there may have been some more behind the door,
But I thought it was a feature, and I never really cared
That some trousers in the bottom layer were quite distinctly flared,
And I didn't mind that one or two of the shirts that showed in parts
Had collars that had last been seen when Joe Dolce topped the charts.
Then, last Sunday, I was lying in my bed and thought "I spy
A certain furtive movement from the corner of my eye"
And, sure enough, when I looked again, so far above the ground
I saw three Austrian mountaineers up on the ironing mound.
They'd pitched a tent beside my bed, which was obviously their base,
And now the cheeky buggers were attempting the North face.
I knew that they were Austrians by the feathers in their hats
So I shouted up, in German, "Hey, you dirty Alpine rats"
But my shout disturbed the ironing, and loosened quite a tranche,
And the whole North face came sliding in a Y-front avalanche.
I don't know where the Austrians went, I know they were last seen
Tumbling madly, arse o'er tit, down One Odd Sock ravine.
I was just relieved to have survived and, once I'd found the floor,
It only took me four more hours to dig through to the door.
But it really made me mend my ways and, with an iron i've borrowed
I smoothed a T-shirt just today, I'll do the rest tomorrow.