This here is a tale of a young girl’s doom.
In which my sister’s face falls to deep gloom.
For to have to clean, to pick up a thing
Would put her young heart, broken, in a sling.

One hour a day a great trouble would loom.
Little Sister, quick, clean the livingroom!
To my Kristen great heartache this would bring
And to her complaints she would rather cling.

Pick up one sock and be done, she’d assume
But this laziness would not bring a clean room.
She’d moan and cry! Yes it really would sting,
When she’d scream like a bird with broken wing.

“If Mom sees this, she’ll fly up to the moon.”
“You’re antics,” I’d say, “would make her a loon.”
“Dad’ll yell, sis, you better get cleaning!”
But even still, she wasn’t listening.

Now the hour’s ending, it’s getting quite soon.
Still the girl had not quite finished that room.
Here’s another night where I’ll get stuck dusting
Another day that I get stuck working.

And here, my readers, you could assume
Is where my story ends without one broom.
Pressed or prodded her denial she would sing
Or give a glare, throw fist in a swing.