No Room At The Bin

I don't know what it's like in your bathroom, but in ours there's something of a stand-off going on.  There are daily incursions and land-grabs, border skirmishes, retaliatory actions and the occasional all-out conflict.  This is a poem which reflects the terrible conditions under which we men must live.

No Room At The Bin

I went in to the bathroom one day,

To clean my teeth if I may.

But the space was all clutter,

And I started to mutter:

We can’t carry on in this way!

My few things like a toothbrush,

Were squashed together all flush.

And my black plastic comb,

In its own little home,

All sitting right there in a crush.

I couldn’t help but notice her wares,

Spread out on one of the chairs.

But the things I required,

Were pushed to one side.

To me this hardly seemed fair!

Mascara, lipstick & eye-liner,

Were spread out, like in a diner.

There were six lotions,

And plenty of potions:

A display much better than mine were!

I spotted three types of shampoo.

She’d say there were too few.

Conditioner & ointment,

And at this point meant,

I couldn’t get near to the loo!

I don’t mean to grumble or mope,

But I’m starting to lose hope.

For too many creams,

Are giving me dreams,

Of being hung by soap on a rope. 

I see she’s got three types of razor,

But this seems not to faze her.

Depillatory action

Is gaining some traction,

And one of them looks to me like a taser. 

This variety’s all very well,

But when you’ve got ten sorts of gel,

The new body scrub,

Arranged near the tub,

Is leading to a bath-time’s version of hell. 

There’s every form of cotton wool:

We’ve glass jars of it quite full.

Some buds & some balls,

Right round the walls:

It’s time that we went for a cull.

To say nothing of her dental picks,

Flosses, discloser and sticks.

Just for her teeth,

It’s beyond belief,

And is only one part of her tricks. 

Some of the creams & the products are pink,

Some of them are blue, but all of them stink.

To moisturise,

And hoist up her eyes,

She’s got potions all round the sink.

Don’t get me started on vitamins & pills,

Which with the cabinet she fills.

Some’ll be vital,

But some of them might’ll

Be fatal – perhaps one of them kills? 

Even though it’s meant to be shared space,

I feel crowded in this grooming arms-race.

Because it’s replete,

I’m admitting defeat,

And I’m out of my depth in this place.

Now of my misery I’ll no longer sing,

But, there’s a question got me wondering.

With all of this stuff,

Is it more than enough,

Or is there any left of the real thing?

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2011