I carefully fold so the corners will meet,
straighten the edges to make them all neat,
but deep down I know it will end in defeat;
I shall never fold correctly a fitted sheet.
I’d more likely become a top athlete,
be asked to move in to 10 Downing Street,
take notice of a Katie Hopkins tweet,
than be able to fold a fitted sheet.
The airing cupboard overflows, replete,
the rest of the room is on the retreat,
it looks like my laundry has begun to excrete,
but it is just my scrunched up fitted sheet.
Into neatness and smoothness,
it refuses to be moulded.
If this poem was a fitted sheet
this is how it would be folded:
It reminds me when my pouch didn’t fit as it should. I had to go to Jysk and then to Willys the rest of the week. I was forced too eat chicken livers. Hard times man. That poem just hit different.