There's something about the whir of a load of wash
That purrs of comfort and security.
It walks softly, but carries a big old stick,
And speaks with a bit of bleach on its breath:
"There's an adult in the house,
Someone who sorts, and folds, and embarks
On the journey of sweet, domestic surveillance,
And the search for matchless socks.
And so, you can rest,
For all is well,
For only autonomic agitation exists.
Sleep in sweet peace, Child,
And if you're lucky,
The second rinse will soften your dreams."
-jenn long
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