We live together, Mrs Ego and me
Have done for years
She fancies herself as a bit of a housekeeper
Think Hyacinth Bouquet, crossed with Hitler
I’ve mainly let her be. Prefer the quiet life
Everything was fine, on the whole,
apart from an occasional do, over space
and stuff. Like I said, a quiet life
Until the day I invited Master in for tea
There she stood at the door
door bell shining, carpets brushed, no dust
no spiders, apron off, the perfect hostess.
In strode Chariji, smiling his smile at her
That smile, looking with those eyes
softly, yet seeing straight through
everything, her, me, our house
She didn’t stand a chance
Before she could stop him
he’s opened the hall cupboard
then the one under the stairs
Well, the dirt and the cobwebs
and the weeping and wailing
There was no stuffing stuff back either
It wouldn’t go. Wouldn’t fit
There was nothing for it, but to clean
everything as it sat there. Dusters and mops
and Brasso and what couldn’t clean
out it all went, so the neighbours
saw everything. Oh My
Then Master sat in the living room

drinking his tea and smiling that smile
 me, as close as I could get to Him, 
 passing the shortbread
 Now, Mrs Ego is sulking in the kitchen
 her apron over her head
 It’ll all end in tears, you mark my words
 He says He hasn’t started on the attic
 Then there’s the cellar and what about
 the rubbish in the garden shed
 Not to mention all the stuff she’s been 
 hiding under my bed for years
 She can kick up as much as she likes
 There’s a better smell about the place
 these days
 He’s here to stay.
                  
Sheila Templeton