My father shouts: “Tidy that mess,”
And Mum’s words are the same,
But when I see Dad’s garden shed,
You’d think he’d feel some shame:
Spades and forks are never cleaned;
The lawnmower’s a disgrace.
Try looking for a piece of string!
It’s in another place.
The hedge clippers - oh look at them!
There’s rust on both the blades,
And sat by them, a tin of paint
Of a horrendous shade.
A box of screws just left to rot,
A drill not put away,
And what’s this lying on the floor?
A hoe that’s had its day.
But this is Daddy’s hiding place
When family life gets tough.
His garden shed’s his sanctuary
For when he’s had enough.
Copyright on all my poems
PS: But this doesn’t mean he can’t clean it. My husband is always tidying things in the kitchen, but his tool area in the garage? Ooooh!!! Is this the same for all men?