Dust I must, but I can’t leave it to rest
Despondent dust: it's your flaky feel I detest
They hang in cobwebs, in corners, and book cases
Little nooks, crannies, and unsuspecting places.
I get tired of this dusting and say, “oh well,”
Uninvited guests, please spare my clothes if you will
Go hang somewhere but not on my wall
If I find you someplace I'd sweep till you fall.
Dust I must, because I am allergic
Even if, perchance, it'd make me neurotic
Oh! Leave my books alone, I have just dusted them
What use are dust jackets? Thickly coated their spines become?
Up here, up there, this dust tires me, oh, they kill
Dusting all the time, agreed, is a matter of skill
Watch me do it with a duster and broom in hand
Till my house is clean; able for next the onslaught to withstand.
