Teach your boy-children
To hoover in the corners
The consequences otherwise
Are hideous, I warn you.
While radiant cleanliness
Is worked around the centre
A glorious halo will begin to emerge
At the threshold where visitors enter,
An every-greying border spreading out towards the skirting
Which over time, undoubtedly, becomes rather diverting,
While women-folk, friends and family
In spite of codes of honour
May peer and tut at every smut
And wonder why you’re shirking.
Or maybe, just maybe,
If those days are dead and gone,
Yours might grow up to be
The only Non-Hoovering One.