Charles Beck
NO DESIGNER GENES ARE THESE

Did you ever hear of the crazy old man  
Who'd spend an hour to scour a pan?  
He'd rub and he'd scrub until his knuckles were sore.  
Then he'd look it all over and scrub it some more.  

One of his daughters possesses that gene.  
So she washes and wipes, but nothing gets clean.  
Peace and contentment are beyond her reach  
When all things cry out for soap and bleach.  

Another daughter was always concerned  
That nothing in her household burned.  
Each night she tore the couch and chairs apart  
Before a fire had a chance to start.  

And so these lives that ran in ruts  
Conspired to drive their owners nuts.  
Not only each his cross must bear,  
But everybody else¹s cross must share

Bereft of hope and filled with pain,  
They sought the means to make them sane.  
The bottle became a sacred pyre  
To drown their guts in liquid fire.

But outside when they took that drink  
Their inside selves still scrubbed the sink  
Over and over and through and through  
Until nothing remained of dirt or clue.

I know their blood flows through my veins.  
That means I must take great pains  
Never to do things the same way twice,  
Be they naughty or be they nice.