Rush, rush, rush.
Always in a rush.
Never time to slow down.
Always have to get around.
Get the kids off to school.
Wave goodbye.
You’re awfully cool.
Now it’s time to clean the place.
Don’t slow down.
You’re in a race.
Clean the kitchen.
Mop the floors.
The doorbell rings.
“Go away,” you implore.
“I have no time to talk
Or listen to your tale.
I’ve got tons of work to do.
Leave your info air mail.”
Bathrooms need to be cleaned,
And put the laundry in the machine.
All day you’re in a frantic mood.
You’ve barely time to eat some food.
And when the kids come home from school,
You’re ready to collapse then you’re up for renewal.
Dinner hasn’t even been cooked.
You have that sorry, whistful look.
“Perhaps I’ll feel better by nine
As long as I don’t lose my mind.”