Spout

Four years it’s been since I was rich enough to fix my kitchen
but ever since I modernized, it seems I’m always bitchin’.

The reason for my huffy mood? A modern high-tech faucet!
It spits and seeps. It goes on strike. I wish that I could toss it.

Press the button on the top to bring on spray or flow?
I press it for a pleasant spray: the headstrong spout says no.

Instead it streams a skinny surge. I cannot rinse my hair
or pelt my pots or spritz my spouse. The faucet doesn’t care.

Or else it sprays and does not stream and I can’t fill a bottle.
That’s when I pull it from its berth and give it a good throttle.

Faucets didn’t do such things in low-tech olden times.
A faucet flowed and that was all. It merited no rhymes,

no lamentations such as mine which wail and curse the gods,
the gods who engineer such junk, the crafty evil sods!

Come-on-a-my-house, engineers! Come over, wash my glasses!
Listen while I vent and rant and call you stupid asses.

Next time I’m in the market for a brand new fancy spigot,
you can bet I’ll buy another brand. I hope to heck I’ll dig it

and not be disenchanted and dismayed and never humming
because I’m plagued by droughts and floods inflicted by my plumbing.