A bad housewife poem. With apologies to Edgar Allen Poe. And lovers of poetry.
In the middle of the night I awoke, quite hot with fright
at the sound of something light scratching in the wall.
I did not try the light, I just screwed my eyes up tight
and I turned my head to right and ignored my husband’s snore.
But the scratch became a tapping and the tapping so distracting,
there was surely something digging, something digging in the wall.
So, I cast my mind to thinking and my heart commenced to sinking
as my memory was linking to the pest that’d been before.
It was the starlings come to stay; to nest and raise their babes,
and my peaceful thought of sleep was drifting out the door.
For the starlings are like mice with wings and beaks and vice
and they certainly aren’t nice to have living in your wall.
They make nests up in the roof where the dogs can’t reach to ‘woof’
and there isn’t any proof that the cats can reach their paw.
And then their eggs will hatch in Spring and the little ones will sing,
and my poor old ears will ring and my nerves will be quite raw.
They will go and raid the chooks and despite my filthy looks,
they will get their little hooks into the chookies corn.
Then I will yell and vent and the dogs I will have sent,
in the hope of the event, that they will scare them off once more.
I must find a way to make the buggers pay
that does not involve a spray, or the poisons I abhorr;
‘cos my human heart is soft and I know they like the dust,
hair and grass would be a must snatched from my filthy kitchen floor.
If I blocked the gutter, I might not hear them utter
another noise or scratch or flutter from inside my bedroom wall.
But that would mean great cleaning, to which I have no leaning,
the starlings will enjoy their preening at my lack of household chore.
So the truth I know, my dear, is they’ll be back again next year,
and I will have to plug my ears and clean my kitchen floor.
I will pay the price for sloth, for my lack of care with cloth,
for my total love of broth; housework really is a bore.