The grass is never green/ Or, little grievances of everyday life, the first of many

I have, at home, a miracle of modern technology.

At its heart lies a hollow cylinder, of toughest steel;

Its outer casing is made of stern plastic,

Refined from plants and creatures

Several millennia dead;

It is connected to the wall

Wherefrom springs energy intangible

And a near endless flood of water;

And yet this marvel has seals of rubber

So as not to electrocute the humble organic user

Who interacts with its electronic interface.

This is truly a marvel of modernity.

Yes, I speak of the magnificent washing machine.

It withstands the onslaught of water, electricity,

Jarring motion and corrosive soap,

All the while bearing a load

Of upto 7.5 kgs in my case.

It allows for nigh on a thousand variations

In speed of revolution (that kindred spirit of the french people),

In temperature of the water,

In the manner of motion

Whose agitation evicts unworthy filth

From one’s modest vestments.

Thousands of years of scientific progress,

Thousands of hours of collecting resources

And assembling them in order

To produce this intelligent machine.

This is no doubt the pinnacle of human innovation.

Which forces me to ask the question,

Why can’t the bastard tell me that it’s overweight,

BEFORE flooding itself with water

That will soon spread across the floor of the apartment

On the evening just before the landlord brings his date home?