Have you heard the tall tale ’bout Slobenia Isle?
It sat off the coast of Shipshape, ‘bout a mile.
A slobby old place, always in disarray.
Messy and dirty most every day.
Slobenia Isle was a land full of kids.
Steven’s and Sally’s and George’s and Sid’s.
And Kelly’s and David’s and Rachel’s and Jimmy’s.
And Bobbie’s and Mary’s and Jenny’s and Timmy’s.
And Freddie’s and Debbie’s and Kenny’s and Anne’s.
And Tracy’s and Tommy’s and Susie’s and Dan’s.
And Mary’s and Bryce’s and Kimberly’s too.
And Ronald’s and Jenny’s and even a Sue.
The Slobs, as they called themselves, lived on this isle
Amongst dirty dishes and clothes in a pile.
Their socks and their underwear strewn ‘bout the street.
And all of the trash from the foods that they’d eat.
But the Slobs, well it seemed that they just didn’t care.
The extent of this problem, they just weren’t aware.
Somehow they just didn’t want to address.
This ugly, egregious, perpetual mess.
Now the Slobs, they were ruled by the King and the Queen.
Of the land of Shipshape which was always kept clean.
Spotless and sparkly, tidy and trim.
Each thing in its place, proper and prim.
Shipshape was a land of persnickety folks.
Fastidious ladies and punctilious blokes.
Neat-niks and nit-picks, they were always convening.
To delegate out the next week’s worth of cleaning.
Who’d do the laundry and vacuum the rugs?
Who’d do the dusting and clean up the bugs?
Who’d wash the dishes and who’d scrub the floors?
With a sponge and a bucket, down on all fours?
Who’d sweep the porches and who’d clean the sinks?
Who’d wash the toilets that were all full of stinks?
Who’d wash the windows, sparkly and clean?
Who’d scrub the stove to bring back its sheen?
They’d always be scolding those Slobs ‘cross the sea.
“Clean up your Island immediately.”
“Pick up your clothes and clean up your clutter.”
“The mess in your streets, it’s making us shudder!”
“You can’t live that way, you must live like us.”
“This is just not a rule we will even discuss.”
“You must clean your island, you must make it so.”
“Until it is clean, we won’t let it go.”
But the Slobs didn’t like these tyrannical rules.
They felt that the laws of Shipshape were for fools.
So they all stood together, in their town square.
Amongst all the dirt and the grime and pet hair.
They agreed to resist the laws of Shipshape.
The rules and the edicts and stifling red-tape.
“We won’t clean our Island, we like it this way.”
“This oppression of yours, we’ll no longer obey.”
So, the King and the Queen, they prepared for a fight.
To clean up Slobenia Isle and it’s blight.
They loaded up trash bags and cleaning supplies.
They mapped out a plan that would surely surprise.
They filled up their ships and they took to the seas.
They sailed towards Slobenia with no guarantees.
Filled with foreboding and deep apprehensions.
Prepared for a battle of epic dimensions.
Now the Slobs, they had lookouts scanning the shore.
They knew the Shipshapes were preparing for war.
So they summoned their soldiers, they sounded alarms.
They built up their beaches with weapons and arms.
Then they waited until the Shipshapes were approaching.
‘Til the King and the Queen and their ships were encroaching.
When the moment was right, with a mighty decree.
They fired their weapons out towards the sea.
Their cannons fired dirty old socks through the air.
Their trebuchets flung lots of old silverware.
And dishes and glasses and clothes that were soiled.
And garbage and trash and food that was spoiled.
But the King and the Queen would not stand for losing.
This was a war, of course of their choosing.
And though they could sense that this crisis was dire.
They kept sailing on through this curtain of fire.
This battle went on for days upon days.
But the Shipshapes sailed on through the harrowing haze.
When they finally arrived on Slobenia Isle.
They saw all the Slobs and their rank and their file.
They commanded the Slobs to “clean up your isle.”
“If you don’t we will have to stay for a while.”
“We’ll take all your freedoms, we’ll take all your rights.”
“We’ll take all your fun in the days and the nights.”
The Slobs, they yelled back, “can’t you see we’re just kids?”
“Steven’s and Sally’s and George’s and Sid’s.”
“And Kelly’s and David’s and Rachel’s and Jimmy’s.”
“And Bobbie’s and Mary’s and Jenny’s and Timmy’s.”
“And Freddie’s and Debbie’s and Kenny’s and Anne’s.”
“And Tracy’s and Tommy’s and Susie’s and Dan’s.”
“And Mary’s and Bryce’s and Kimberly’s too.”
“And Ronald’s and Jenny’s and even a Sue.”
“And kids, well we only just want to have fun.”
“To jump and to play and to dance and to run.”
“We surely don’t think about keeping things clean.”
“That’s for adults who are mostly just mean.”
The King and the Queen, were silenced of speech.
They’d once been kids too, running ‘round on this beach.
And a chink in their armor started to crack.
As childhood memories came flooding back.
“Well you do have a point”, they said to the Slobs.
“Sometimes we lose sight, because of our jobs.”
“But we must find a way, to answer this riddle.”
“To find a solution, to meet in the middle.”
So the King and the Queen, they scheduled a meeting.
Around a big table with plenty of seating.
They invited the leaders of Slobenia Isle.
The plan was to compromise once in a while.
They wrote up a truce that they all had to sign.
In bright purple pen on the signature line.
A truce that would end this unfortunate brawl.
A truce that would end this war once and for all.
The truce said “you must clean your island each week.”
“For the rest of the time we’ll try not to critique.”
“And we’ll pay an allowance, an adequate rate.”
“Just enough money to help motivate.”
The Slobs, they agreed to give it their best.
To keep their isle clean at their leaders request.
To pick up their clothes, to clean up their trash.
With the hope that they’d build up a small stash of cash.
Then the King and the Queen said, “let’s go out and play”
“Let’s run ‘round the beach for the rest of the day!”
“Let’s climb in the trees, let’s splash in the creek.”
“Cleaning your isle can wait ‘til next week.”
And that’s the tall tale ‘bout Slobenia Isle.
That sat off the coast of Shipshape ‘bout a mile.
An island whose residents just want to play.
And a place that’s no longer a mess every day.
You may reach the author at http://brownroadchronicles.