Rhyme from an old Diary

Mrs.  X  runs a heavenly home;

So  neat , so nice, such a nest.

The curtains are crisp,

The taps don’t drip --

 The house passes every blessed test.

Well almost every test;

For while I do swear

That  cockroaches don’t dare

To prance on her tables—

She’s just too  perfect, too  able.

The morning newspaper

Is in it’s place,

Yesterday’s is inside a shelf;

I can’t find a quick-stray  pin or a pen –

They’re all in their appointed stables.

There’s nothing unexpected,  no  sudden joy;

No  ad leaflets to laugh at.

The useless is thrown off,

The  latest displayed so –

To be used and promptly disposed off.

There's no shoebox old,

Brimming with tales,

Of a naughty birthday greeting,

Or a bauble that sparkles

With mischiveous memories

Of  a riotous party.

And  so  the  X   nest ,

So  squeaky-clean , so neat;

Still fails one final test—

To  my  seeking  mind

It

Is

Just,

Too  predictable,

So

Totally

Utterly

Boring.