I live in a house that never is messy,
Where laundry is folded and mother is dressy.
I wear bright red lipstick and tri-pleated skirts,
Pearly-pearl earrings and button-up shirts.
My husband is suited, and tied up, and cuffed,
He trots in galoshes and goes out in a muff.
The children, dear children, are starched in the morning,
Play all day tidy, sit in their corners.
Their noses stay put, they don’t ever run,
And their tender young faces never burn in the sun.
They beg for chopped lettuce and shun the ice cream,
They never wet the bed or have a bad dream.
Even the house pets do as they’re told,
Don’t pee in the corners, never grow old.
My house runs precisely, hour by hour,
The bread’s always fresh, the milk never sour.
Like a thousand small packages tied in a bow,
I like my house neat and my family just so.
But I must admit sometimes I want to upturn precision
Pour dust in the corners, break up the rhythm.
Tousle the hair on the head of the kids,
Loosen the ties, pull off the lids.
For life in a package, shiny and spun,
Is small, neat, and boxy, and frankly, no fun.