A Cautionary Tale
The clock screamed "You're late!"I sprang from my bed.
I jumped in the shower
and this is what I said,
"I must get to work,
I just don't have time
to scrub this old shower
of its soap crust and slime."
This was the habit,
my modus operandi,
so I didn't see the birth
of a new breed of fungi.
They bubbled, they festered, they wiggled, they grew...
amidst soap scum and moisture in near primeval goo.
So bleary eyed one morning, I stepped in the stall
when a small voice screamed "STOP! You'll squish my son, Gaul!"
I carefully crouched near a chorus of fungi
who lodged in the grout. Way down among my
shampoos and conditioners, there crawled on green tiles,
ten three-eyed lumps with big toothsome smiles.
A large orange one said, "Greetings! My name is Fun Gus.
I understand you're our host and live here with us."
I opened the door and looked at the clock
and saw I'd be late if I continued this talk.
Their colors were pretty and natures quite witty—
so I tolerated them there in the dark nitty-gritty.
I murmured some pleasantry, (yet felt somewhat naked).
Treading slowly I exited, now fully awakened.
"I must get to work,
I just don't have time
to rid this old shower
of deposits of lime."
Their spawning was active, their numbers doubled nightly.
With each passing day, beady eyes smiled more brightly.
Fun Gus and Fun Gaul had more relatives than I,
and were uninvited guests, every moldy bright eye.
New cultures arose right there in my shower,
with arts, church and politics all feuding for power.
Quite quickly they impeded my ability to bathe.
I had to tip toe to not step on a theatrical enclave
producing such hits as "LES LICHENS DANGEREUSES"
or "MILDEW MINE" (The travails of a mushroom masseuse).
I exposed myself to culture right in my own homestead.
Though I feared for my health, I half-heartedly still said,
"I must get to work!
I just don't have time
to scrub this old shower
of its growth and its grime."
Their numbers still grew,
they rankled, they percolated.
They declared their own statehoods.
Their wars sometimes escalated.
One morning at the top of this population boom,
said Gus, "You're not welcome to enter our bathroom.
You're just much too big to see down by your feet,
you will crush our small homes and squish our elite."
I said, "I must take a shower, I must get to work!"
Yet they were so rude, they called me a jerk
to show up in the nude "when there were little ones just perc'd."
I was embarrassed and angry—I thought I would cry
at, "We never did like you, you're not a fun guy."
That was the last straw! My eyes just saw red!
"This bathroom is mine!" I vehemently said,
"Though I must get to work,
I will just take the time
to bring this old shower
to its disinfected prime."
I heard church services singing "Mold me to thy will..."
and many fungi fretting about unpaid bills,
and small scientists mocked by tart yogurt mimes,
and in a corner some truffles committing terrible crimes.
Amid a performance of "ABSURD FUNGI SINGULAR".
They discovered catastrophe had hit their vernacular.
I scrubbed, and I scraped and I sprayed and I washed.
I used Tilex and Ajax and licentiously squashed.
I used Lysol Scent II and that stuff that turns blue,
I sponged. I polished and 409'd it all too.
I pried them from walls and they fell with a splat.
They went down the drain and I thought that was that...
'til realized I'd wiped out an entire civilization.
I made myself some coffee to consider the implication.
Are we too some version of unwelcome cosmic mold,
Irritating a larger, far bigger household?
I fretted and I worried and I played my guitar,
but had time before work to clean out my car.
