I often find CRUMBS,
All over the floor,
That are left by my kids,
aged 11 and 4.
When I strap the kids in,
To the car to go out,
They’ll be CRUMBS on the seats,
mixed with sand, there’s no doubt.

Sometimes I find CRUMBS,
As I lie in my bed,
Some sat perched on my pillow,
Getting stuck to my head,
They’re now in my hair,
And all over my face,
As they’re casually Invading,
My personal space.

When I’ve lost the remote,
That controls the TV,
It’s with CRUMBS down the edge,
Of our cushioned settee.
And whilst sat in the office,
Working hard at my desk,
I look down at my keyboard,
To see a crumby crevasse.
From the gaps of the letters,
Delete, alt and control,
The CRUMBS bounce as I tap,
Like the old whack a mole.

I hate watching strangers,
Get CRUMBS in their beard,
As their eating the sandwich,
From which they appeared,
I just want to tell them,
That they’re missing their mouth,
From their lips the CRUMBS jumped,
And have now headed south.

But the main reason I hate CRUMBS,
As much as I do,
Is because I hate cleaning,
And hoovering too,
But as a parent with kids,
That are as messy as mine,
I’ve just got to accept,
CRUMBS are on the incline!


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