A Mothers Nag.

My mom keeps yelling at me to clean my room.
And yet, I would much rather not.
She stands her ground and hands me the broom.

She points at the Windex, with its dreaded fume.
I let out a sigh when she is out of earshot.
My mom keeps telling me to clean my room.

When I think I am done, she brings out the vacuum.
As if I am some sort of cleaning robot.
She stands her ground and hands me the broom.

This torture could go on all day, is what I assume.
When she gives me the duster, I want to give her a swat.
My mom keeps yelling at me to clean my room.

Considering my progress she says it looks less like doom.
But there are also some things that she has not caught.
She stands her ground and hands me the broom.

“Just pick these clothes up and the floor will bloom!”
I put my head down and say I cannot.
My mom keeps yelling at me to clean my room.
She stands her ground and hands me the broom.





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