Trouble

'Twas an hour before showing when all through the house
all the toys were gathered and the floors were cleaned.
The beds were made, the dishes washed,
the tubs all scrubbed and the windows gleamed.

When suddenly there hailed a desperate shout
a troubled soul sounded as if she would faint.
For there where once the floor was washed,
there puddled a pool of whitish paint.

A tiny person squealed and screamed
for a puddle of paint was a delightful game.
A quick hand wash followed by swift banishment
to the safe toy room for the mischievous dame.

If only there were contraptions for such tragedies
to suck up the mess trickling through the wooden floor,
but there it seeped into the cracks and grooves,
right inside the seller's front door.

In all of creation there found not a better tool:
paper towels were a wonderful invention
they sopped and seeped and worked better than
the idyllic contraption I previously mentioned.

Two pairs of hands and a clean pail of water
applied with scrub brushes and the paper rags,
when at last it was finished there filled none less
than two paint-sopping-rag-filled grocery bags.

Now if you believe this unfortunate tale
I'm pleased to announce that it really is true,
but there where it happened there leaves not a trace:
the wooden floor looks clean and quite new.

Let this be a lesson for all who are blessed
with the charm of a youthful small girl or boy;
though innocence arrays those dear little folks,
they'd much rather make trouble than play with a toy.