Ode to a dustbin

My husband has a dustbin,

It is his pride and joy.

He carefully attends to it,

like any precious toy.

His bin is far more cleaner,

than any on the street.

His rubbish all in plastic bags,

placed  tidily and neat.

You will not see any rubbish,

Spilling out of his spruce bin.

The lid is always firmly down,

so no rodents can get in.

And when his bin is emptied.

A treat is now in store.

The inside is washed and showered.

But once it went back to next door

He knew he had not his own bin.

It was a worrying time.

So late at night he changed it.

And thereby ends this rhyme.

Hot Plates

Dinner should be served on hot plates.

Is my husband’s constant cry.

And then there follows a diatribe,

of all of the reasons why.

The heat from the meat will go into the plate.

The veg will get cold in a tick.

The spuds will be cold and the plate will be hot

The reasons just get on my wick.

But I’ve spent all day planning tonight.

A tasty surprise, I can’t wait!

I’ll carry it in with napkin and tray.

Chicken salad served on a hot plate!

Odd Socksuc

  Where do all the odd socks go?

They’re always washed in pairs.

Perhaps they fly away

as they are carried down the stairs .

I’ve searched behind the radiators

and checked the tumble dryer.

I’ve even looked under the beds,

the problem is quite dire.

I think there is a sock heaven,

where the unmatched wait in vain.

But when I throw the odd halves out,

the others appear again.