I shall never bend the knee — of starched linen trousers

Behold
Tis I, King of Arm & Hammer
Cleaner of Lint Traps
And Lugger of Hampers.

I swore an oath,
At eight and 10 in the morn.
To wash and fold laundry
Whilst I ate the popped corn.

From the highest collar of Polo
To the lowest trouser of Denim,
That pile of clothes
T’was seemed never-endin’.

In the forge of my garage
I tamed the Cycle of Spin
And turned browned underwear
Bright white once again!

I mixed colored banners
And was thus repudiated,
Yet they emerged from the wash
Completely unfaded!

My triumph was complete,
My detergent was Bold
But alas, there was a stain
That made my blood runneth cold.

Is this spilled blood
On my young heir’s collar?
Or is it ketchup from nuggets
That was bought for two dollars?

Another stain on a blouse.
Shall I treat it with milk of the Oxi?
Or perhaps a dash of salt,
and a splash of Peroxi?

Quickly now, Lad
Send a Ravens snapback
Straight to the living room,
To dry on the rack.

Bastard! Bastard! Bastard!
I shouted in denial
After finding yet another,
No-match sock in the pile.

The folding is endless,
The hangers too few
There is simply too much laundry
For the Maester to do.