Whose Underwear these are I think I know.
Is it the little butt that I know?
He will not see me throwing them in the machine
To watch his briefs fill with steam.
My sweet husband must think it queer
To find a pair of briefs so dear
Between the bras and workout gear
Some of the smells I fear.
I toss the drawers up and away
Hoping detergent will have its way.
The only other sound’s the hum
Of easy dryer as it runs.
The piles are huge, dark and deep.
whites and darks and colors in a heap,
And piles of laundry to go before I sleep,
And piles of laundry to go before I sleep
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