Incompatibility | Poetry

poetry incompatibility

By Gillie Threadgold, Skipton

I’ve fallen out with my drier,
a shiny, new-fangled machine.
It gets the sheets in a tangle,
and fills up the kitchen with steam.

It sulks, and it whines, and it whinges,
whenever I ask it to work.
As soon as it spies me with washing,
it slinks in the corner to shirk.

Buttons say ‘pull’ or ‘turn clockwise’,
but it refuses to do what it’s told.
It simply engages in combat,
I press ‘hot’, it blows ‘cold’.

This morning it groaned and stopped working,
it splattered, and spluttered, then hissed.
And when I rescued the washing,
my knickers were all in a twist.

I think I’ll go back to some clothes pegs,
and a bit of strong string for a line.
On a nice windy day with some sunshine,
the clothes dry in just the same time.

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