Weaponized Incompetence
He sighs, the tragic, aiding knight,
He is no help - although he tried.
A shrug, a grunt, a fleeting moan,
Then you do it all alone.
He doesn’t know where sponges hide,
Or how a trash bag must be tied.
He’s baffled by that thing - oh, soap!
Then stares at socks like quantum hope.
The vacuum next, a beast of yore,
Its switch a puzzle, mythic lore.
He taps it twice, declares it dead,
Then mourns its loss and goes to bed.
He gives his all to change the sheets,
Then gives up - All defeats!
The duster follows, no perseverance.
What's he good at? Disappearance!
He cannot cook, but burns with flair;
He followed steps - "Babe, I swear!"
He loads the washer upside down,
Then acts like he deserves a crown.
He ruins laundry, floods the floor,
Brings wrong items from the store.
The towels pink, the plates still greasy
Chores are "hard, and not so easy."
He cries, "I tried!" - his noble part,
His martyrdom? A work of art.
His helplessness? Weaponized!
Each clueless blink? Memorized!
Each time you ask, he does it worse,
The smirk rehearsed, his tone perverse.
"Oh Baby, really, I'm no help!"
He acts hurt, lets out a yelp.
And as you clean his tragic art,
He whispers, "See? You’re just so smart."
The curtain falls, the trick’s complete -
A genius act of planned defeat.
