“I’m buzzy, buzzy, buzzy!” said the bee;
Said I, “But not a bit as much as me!”
“That’s bad grammar!” said the fly,
“For you should have said, ‘As I’!”
Flies are an awful pest, you will agree.
There are a dreadful lot of flies around:
They seem to cover every bit of ground;
And for every one I swat,
Simply swarms another lot –
Ignore them, they don’t go away, I’ve found.
I’m fixing things, and cleaning things, and stuff,
The days aren’t made with time in them, enough;
And then also, in between,
I still have the edit scene;
No wonder that I’m getting in a huff!
A lawn to clean; a pool I have to mow,
I’d hunt for things, except I do not know,
In which half-buried box
I have even packed my socks –
No doubt they are, a heap of stuff, below!
We’ve simply loads and loads of stuff to sell,
But selling isn’t something I do well,
Though to throw or give away
Makes me yell, “Och! No way! Nay!”
I’ve Scots in me, as you can doubtless tell.
Some time, I dream, again will come the day
When I’ve a chance to have a bit of play
On blogs, and music, too,
And a spot of writing do,
But these constant chores refuse to go away!