As I sit with an attentive ear upon this bothersome washing machine,
I question how its essence can be relayed into poetic existentialism
Perhaps the repetition of splosh and splish, of squirt and swish,
Is enough to appease my poet's wish
Or it could be true that there is an underlying metaphor,
To explain how the soap and water on cotton could mean so much more
It is also possible that the intricacy of the machine's design,
Is adequate to portray as pristine and divine
As I sit with an attentive ear upon this bothersome washing machine,
I question how its essence can be relayed into poetic existentialism
And at last it becomes ever clear to me,
The washing machine won't mind if I leave it in its current state of simplicity
Splish splosh, squirt swish,
To embellish in pursuit of the façade of art is nothing more than foolish
A washing machine is simply a machine that washes, and that's okay,
In fact, I've come to like it better that way.