turning in the washer on fire,
The housewife cannot hear the massacre.
Threads fall apart; the stitches will not
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the wardrobe.
The bucket of Tide is tossed, and
The ceremony of sanitation is drowned;
The blouses suffer convection, while the
Are full of heated up intensity.
Surely some repairman is at
Surely the Service Contract is at hand.
The Service Contract! Hardly are those
When a vast image out of Expiritus
Troubles my sight: somewhere in the
offices of the city
A shape with pudgy body and the head of a
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow pencil, while all
Reel shadows of indignant corporate crows.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty-four months of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a coverage
And what rough service worker, his hour
come round at last,
Slumbers in suburbia with a snore?