New brooms sweep clean
Old brooms can’t be fussed
New brooms are mad keen
Old brooms can’t stand dust.
New brooms are young bulls
Can’t wait to get their teeth
Into the kitchen carpet,
Up the stairs and underneath
The fridge and the cooker
Where grease stains won’t dissolve,
With each problem their bristles
Stiffening with resolve.
Old brooms are allergic
To dust and doggy hair
Than raise a whirlwind in the lounge
They would much prefer
To rearrange the particles
With a reassuring sweep,
Then lean against the cupboard wall
For a long and dreamless sleep.
‘Dust is the carpet of the contented’
The motto of ancient brooms
And of the folk who sit contentedly
Waiting, in darkening rooms.