Oftentimes I wonder,
Whether I should fold the clothes,
Would the world be torn asunder,
Should I leave them in their troves?
They sit there in the bag,
And seem to look with wondering eyes,
Why does their owner lag,
In his numerous tries.
Maybe we are forgotten,
And he has turned his eyes.
Maybe he hates our cotton,
And has learned to despise.
But the kind owner did not forget,
He takes them each, one by one,
And removes all thoughts of neglect,
And from the homely hanger they are swung.
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