My nosy neighbours love to mop.

They never, ever, ever stop.

It’s scrub-rub-rub from dawn till night,

Until their floors are gleaming bright.

In the corner house, Miss West

Says her floors are, of course, the best,

While Mr Green says his are clean,

The cleanest that you’ve ever seen.

But Mrs Begum, down the street,

Claims hers are really far more neat,

And Steve and his new husband, Lars,

Say their floors sparkle, just like stars.

Other floors are full of dirt,

Says Sergeant Major Fizzlebert,

While Annie Mae in Number Two

Shouts very loudly ‘That’s not true!’

They mop the lounge, they mop the hall,

They mop the bedroom floors and all.

Their muscles tire, they start to cough,

Eventually their arms drop off,

Their legs seize up, their heartbeat stops,

But still they stand there, with their mops,

And each and every grey old ghost

Will go to meet its friends, and boast

That while it’s true they’re dead, their floors

Are so much cleaner than next door’s.




7 Comments to “Mopping”

  1. nice enjoyed this poem!

  2. I really like this!
    Its a fun read 🙂

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