An exercise in the mock elegaic voice used to address first world problems!
I took my load, full wet and sodden,
To my small patch of green and there suspended
Each single part, from hulking towel to flimsy small,
On the eternal spinning spiral set deep within the Earth.
I thought the shining fingers of your heat
Would caress away the moisture of the past,
And deliver clothes reborn, free from stain and sin.
But as the last peg held fast on the limbo line of Purgatory,
You gave your place above to brimful clouds of grey.
It pissed down for the next three hours. Thanks for that.
Ancient, primitive tribes of the past would worship you.
They called you Sky-fire, Life-giver, god.
But they lived in a pre-clothes line culture,
Because they didn’t wash any clothes.
Because they didn’t wash.
I hope you’ll be happy, Mr Sun,
When the ancient, primitive tribes of the future
Worship the Tumble Dryer.