I may well take your complaints
And hang them to dry
Out in the yard, by the picket fence.
Because your laundry piles so regularly
Pressing on my chest, Giles Corey:
I will no longer be your maid
A wonder your mother hasn’t killed you
By now—Take you by the hands
And snap a clothespin on you.
I wrung you out, so
Why must you still soak with disappointment
Amidst all your other rags
That have turned a raisin in the sun—
The longer you are out,
The more and more you rank
The odor is becoming too much
The neighbors are beginning to protest
I must dispose of you.