DIRTY BUBBLES.

As the monks self-isolate, Brother Binky has decided to write a series of poems in a genre he is calling, "Mundane Poetry".
Here is the first.
Stay safe, and we hope that these words will help guide you through such difficult times.
Brother Biscuit-Banjo.

Dirty Bubbles

I wish I had a new machine,

To help me get my  dishes clean.

Instead I'm stuck with washing up,

A sticky spoon and brown stained cup.

I have to lean at ten degrees,

Which kills my back and hurts my knees.

The soapy waves break loose and flee,

To spread their suds all over me.

Whilst growling out my bitter rants,

I stand with soggy jeans and pants.

And now the water's getting cold,

To add more hot, or maybe hold.

I'll push on through, there's not much left,

My back's in pain, my mind's bereft.

The final bowl, the end is near,

My kitchen will be clean and clear.

A glance around, one final check,

Before I rest my aching neck.

But piss and shit inside my grave,

There's more behind the microwave.

Oh crap and bollocks, fucking hell,

There's more there on the hob as well.

I've had enough, I draw the line,

I'll finish that another time.

I head towards the kitchen door,

But slip on soapy kitchen floor.

I lose my feet and bang my head,

I see some stars, and bits of red.

My arms won't move, I'm feeling ill.

Who knew that washing up could kill?