Twas the mess before Christmas, and all through the house
not a thing was in order, not children, not spouse.
The stockings were thrown under beds and on chairs
in hopes that dear Mama would soon find them there.
The children all wrestled to find their warm beds
while remains of cracker crumbs danced on their spreads.
The closets were piled high with presents and more,
and when the door opened, they’d fall to the floor.
Over and over my spouse seemed to mutter:
“What in the world will we do with this clutter?”
On Comet, on Ajax, on Hoover, Dust Buster,
on soap and hot water; this place lacks some luster.
The sewing machine was constantly whirring
at night when nobody else was stirring.
I was making some crafts for my sweet little dears,
cursing Martha Stewart amidst all my tears.