It seems like all evening I vacuum and scrub
while my husband finds time to drink down the pub.
I wouldn’t mind him spending time with  fellow chums
if only he’d stop dropping those darn biscuit crumbs.
They sit on the kitchen counter, docile and dumb
oh how I loath the old biscuity crumb.
They lay in wait as I come home from work,
then out of the corner of my eye I see them lurk
being crunched underfoot, until as fine as soot
when all I wants a glass of wine and a good book
but no, I have to sweep, crumbs from under my feet
before I can look for something more substantial to eat.
You know I long for the day, when the crumbs have all been swept away,
so have decided to give my crumb clearing, a little holiday.
In crumbs I will sit, book and wine in hand,
ignoring the little crumbles, now wont that be grand.
I will shake them from my view, and start my life anew,
allthough I once was told that  from little piles of crumbs big crumb mountains grew.