Sailing
There’s a spatula to starboard, there’s a soup-spoon off to port.
In the distance there’s an isle of forks of a certain slimy sort.
Muck and mold have set to sail in a fleet of pots and pans;
they’re a roughshod crew but strong and tough and well-armed to a man.
It’s hard to duck and cover when they’re floating on a cup,
which is why my reputation is for always cleaning up.
Sometimes it seems I’ve found a bay that’s clear and calm and fine,
‘though it never fails: from a stopped-up drain comes a rising tide of slime.
My cannon’s packed with powder, but it’s of a cleansing kind;
When I draw a bead and touch the fuse only virii run and hide.
I’d like to scale the shining cliffs and retire before I die,
but they seem an endless army that’s descending from the sky.
So I hoist my flag on a toothpick and I plant it in my sponge;
I’ve a wand’ring soul and a soapy sea of food-scum to expunge!
