I fill the emty, pit-like room

Within its chilly, metal hulk

With garments rank and linens soiled

So it can clean them--needed work,

 

With rushing surge it floods the room

And sweeps and churns up all the dirt

That clings like leeches to the clothes;

This all it does without complaint.

 

But then, to pump the flood away.

It has to spin its inner cell

Around like wheels down a hill,

Which it regards intolerable.

 

And so--it hurls a fit of rage!

With ban! it beats, and thuud! ait kicks

With metal heels the concrete floor,

Whch, though it tries, it never breaks.

 

I rearrange inside its tub

First this, then that--each dripping piece,

But cannot coax it to its work

While quieting its betterness.

 

Though venting irritation sore

On others only scathes one worse,

Until the hated cycle ends,

Its clamor echoes through the house.

 

But then, at last, my dad repairs, 

The flaws deep-hidden in its core,

And after troubling us so long,

It now can work without a war.