Oh hi me hence to the laundromat
Bearing many a malodorous sock
As oftimes a shepherd will boldly go
To the babbling brook where the clear waters flow
With a line of the wooliest beasties in tow
(Or sometimes merely formed up in a row)
Which comprises his caprinaerious flock
A football jersey, meant for sports
Relegated now to work
A dozen holed and yellowed shorts
Which in a dank corner lurk
Some threadbare jeans and and faded tees
A brace of sweatpants lacking knees
And a woolen sweater, rife with fleas
I finds I must transports
As manly heart anticipates the finding of a laundromat queen
Perhaps a Vida Guerra clone
Or Jennifer Lawrence all alone
Or Charlotte McKinney, sans cell phone*
But it doesn't seem to be my day, none such are here, I ween.
When it comes to laundromatic love it seems I am "stuff" out of luck,
For the only lass who toils within
Sports globular frame and trebular chin
And more body hair than Rin Tin Tin
Much like Rosanne Barr with a silly grin, had her face impacted a truck.
*So she can't call for help.
