Our slaves at home we put in place
to perform our chores at once
From time to time we think of them
as nothing more than household dunce
We pretend that what they do for us
is incidental mostly trivial
As we bay and crow relentlessly
at our leisure most convivial
They wash our clothes and toast our bread
roast and cook then clean the dishes
So much to do we carp in spite of this
as though they crowd and cloud our wishes
Should they refuse, give out, or simply die
our air of comfort zone turns blue
Calling names like useless piece of junk
then wonder what the hell to bloody do
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