Everyday, it seems to be That my bedroom door is attacking me. It traps my hand and hurts my fingers And it's a pain that just stays and lingers. Down the stairs, carefully I tread, Lest I fall, this I dread. Yet I tumble after I've tripped And the bottom stair ends up skipped. Dare I enter the kitchen where the pots and pans do rest. I just wanted a cup of tea, but the crockery does protest. It all falls down towards poor me And then I have to stop it. See? No-one believes me that the house comes alive, And to hurt me, the inanimate objects do strive.