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abstractagamid:

And my bathroom faucet freaking

Still is leaking, still is leaking

down upon my bathroom floor

While I chilled, my tea still sipping, suddenly there came a dripping,
As of someone messy, tipping water on my kitchen floor.
“’Tis the cat again,” I muttered, “tipping water on the floor,
“Just the cat, and nothing more.”

Pretty sure this was last summer; home repairs are such a bummer;
And that damned expensive plumber had been often here before.
Of the bills I oft was groaning;—sick of debt and of homeowning;
Citibank would not be loaning me one wretched penny more.
Tl;dr: I was poor.

And the soft, unsteady, plinking noises of the droplets sinking
Irked me—worked me up like nothing else had ever done before;
For the dripping was impeding any progress in my reading:
“’Tis the cat,” I echoed, “tipping water on my kitchen floor—”
Tipping cups and spilling water till it drips upon the floor;—”
Then I saw she was outdoors.

Then I put away my novel, full of premonitions awful;
“Damn,” said I, “This may be something far too ruinous to ignore.”
I had a dreadful sinking feeling that a leak so quietly stealing
Might go through the downstairs ceiling, or breed nasty moldy spores.
So I seized my courage then, and opened up the bathroom door;—
What a mess upon the floor.

Deep within that bathroom streaming, long I stood, internally screaming,
And composing curses few homeowners dared to curse before;
But the faucet kept on dripping; I stood still to keep from slipping, 
And to keep myself from flipping out I cried “God, what a chore!”
This I shouted, and from upstairs came the question “What’s a chore?”—
This whole mess was uncalled for.

Then I, to the stairwell turning, rage and bile within me churning;
Strove to keep my wife from learning what it was I grumbled for.
“Fret not,” said I, all frustration, “’tis no cause for consternation,”
—But upon examination of the pool upon the floor,
It was, sadly, rather worse than I had giv’n it credit for,
And had soaked through the subfloor.

Checked the cabinet with a mutter, where, with many a spurt and sputter,
I wrenched the shutoffs shut, and soon the water ceased to pour.
The aforementioned financial woes were problems still substantial;
I recalled the circumstantial bills from “fixes” come before—
And I quailed to think what they would charge to fix the bathroom floor—
Quailed, and sat on the wet floor.

Then this fluid from pipes becloggéd my sad bottom waterloggéd
Til I, with a dogged purpose, rose and squished across the floor,
Feeling much in need of brandy, said I, “I will ring for Andy.
I confess, I am not handy, and a clog I do abhor—
And his prices can’t be worse than what’s-his-name from Ecuador.
His number’s in the top desk drawer.”

Much I marvelled to hear Andy say all would be fine and dandy;
His assurance little meaning—little relevancy bore
To the nigh-apocalyptic bathroom scene, a dismal triptych:
Formed of pipes and levers cryptic; me despairing on the floor;
And the ripples in the glistening water spread across the floor,
As it trickled out the door.

O’er the sodden scene I hovered, as new breaches he discovered,
And the subfloor, once uncovered, teemed with mould’ring blights galore.
“Shit,” I blasphemously uttered, as my nervous fingers fluttered,
Round the room I paced and puttered, groused and muttered, groaned and swore.
Andy grunted, “Got a mess here,” o’er his radio’s hiss and roar—
Tuned in to K-104.

As I glumly watched him seeking to pull up the floorboards creaking,
Andy said, “At least the faucet should be easy to restore
Through the forceful application of a wrench’s firm gyration
To correct the pipe’s dilation, through which water, heretofore,
Has been leaking.” I nodded, dumbly; almost called for an encore
From this handy orator.

“Problem is,” the guy continued, wielding tool with muscle sinewed,
“All these older pipes within your wall have got to be restored.
Stuff like this had really oughta be replaced with proper copper.”
Dreading that he’d make a pauper of me, then did I implore
Of this canny, handy, manly Andy of the plumbing corps
If a discount he’d explore.

Andy spurned negotiation; gave no response but negation
Leaving me deep in frustration, as the water had before.
Quickly laid he down new plywood, cleared the clog, assured me I should
Call a carpenter – this guy could lay new floorboards for the floor;
He’d return if e’er I wanted pipes (which I’d pay him fully for)—
And then he was out the door.

Then, methought, I heard a tinkling down from yonder ceiling sprinkling;
Leaping downstairs in a twinkling, I beheld a new eyesore.
“Wretch,” I cried, soliloquizing, “thou sure hast false advertising!”
And the wrath within me rising with my anguish did make war;
‘Handy Andy’ had but moved the plumbing problem down a floor—
And soaked the bookshelves, furthermore.