Good morn, fair lady! Nay, your eyes do not deceive thee. ‘Tis I, the Pile of Crap on the Stairs, at your feet once more. Yay, tho you took leave of me yestervening on the manor stairs. Yay, tho thine hopes were great that the lads and lasses would move me to their quarters. Nevertheless, I remain where you left me, unmoved and noticed by no one. ‘Tis a difficult tonic to swallow, this I know.
Tho this day be fresh with dew, m’lady, thou are not, and thy displeasure at my presence cannot be veiled. Not even the smallest bit.
Prithee, may I proffer advisement? Forsooth, a touch of concealing tonic beneath thine eyes would lessen the horrors of this disappointing morn. Thy visage is both angry and haggard. ‘Tis a frightening sight. (Merely uttering.)
Whilst I am dispensing wisdom, hast thou considered the eyes of the manor lads and lasses? Perhaps they have partaken of a fruit that looks most innocent, but verily causes blindness to certain objects?
Nay, nay, you speaketh truth, m’lady. The lads and lasses ne’er would touch fruits nor vegetables.
Perchance there is something more sinister afoot. An evil sorceress hath surely cast a spell on your lads and lasses! They will forevermore be unseeing of their possessions and responsibilities. They shall dwell within this manor until you are most fully undone by your endless efforts. Aye, what drudgery this life hath bestowed upon thee!
Mark these words, m’lady. ‘Til the day you are cold in the ground or the lads and lasses have their own manor stairs, they shan’t know the torture I bring to you. No measure of weeping nor screaming nor gnashing of teeth shall sway the acts of these slovenly waifs. ‘Tis best to succumb to the sweet surrender of unboundless clutter.
Fare thee well, good lady. Fare thee well. We shall meet again in the morrow, and each morrow after that, ‘til the waters of dashed hopes, disappointments, and dirty socks drowns us both.