This strange creature in my room
Cleans my clothes
Maybe it has little goblins in it
That survive on water and detergent
There must be a whole city inside
Of tiny demons that wait every week
For their supply of filthy tributes
That they clean and spit out
I refuse to believe in electricity, sir
There is a goblin city inside this machine
They wait and pine till I shake off laziness
And give them some dirty clothes to clean
Every year the servicing magician comes over
To replace goblins that have expired
He fills up the machine with a new population
That the wizards at IFB have hired
Sometimes I hear the machine tick at night
As goblins dream of revolutions
But then I remember my dirty clothes
And shove them in the machine with cleaning solutions
Maybe some day the goblins will emerge
From the bowels of machines all over the world
If they don't find enough clothes to clean
Maybe they'll take over this earth.
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Sending poems from phone makes their text size weirdly large. Bear with me, dear readers.
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