In a house where clutter’s got a sturdy stance,
Dwells a wife who’s mastered the beauty dance.
With a broom in one hand, and a brush in the other,
She sweeps and she slays, like a fashion had mother.
“Oh, darling,” she sighs, with a glimmering eye,
“Life’s a tough grind,” but she’s ready to fly.
Dishes unsorted, laundry piled high,
Yet her eyebrows are lifted, her lashes will fly.
To the beauty salon, she’s a queen on her throne,
While the dust bunnies gather, neglected, alone.
“Realistic,” she claims, with a mask on her face,
But the only real thing is her ongoing chase.
“Moderation!” she cries, as she orders up two,
Sprays and tonics, and brightening glue.
Her phone's buzzing fiercely: “Another new trend!”
A selfie, a filter, a blemish to mend.
The world’s full of chaos and visible grime,
Yet her world is glimmering; she’s right on time.
“Who has the heart for chores in this race?”
A primped princess, she evades common space.
At playdates, she talks of the latest regime,
“You simply must try this new serum, it’s supreme!”
And while others are baking, cooking dinner with ease,
She’s perfecting her pout, all while sipping on teas.
“Hard work?” she asserts, “Oh, it’s such a chore!”
But she doesn’t quite care—she’s off to explore
The magic of facials, and nails painted bright,
While she leaves the housework to dust in the light.
So here’s to the wife, both deluded and spry,
Chasing aesthetics as the laundry piles high.
Realism’s just a glamorous guise
For kingdom of mirrors, not practical lives.
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