Chore

Nothing here is ever still,

Wheels always turning like a windmill,

Retracing steps, going after the paper trail,

Not really trapped in here,

No need to pay my bail,

Just leave some fries on the mail,

And some fried quail,

For dessert, a blow,

From the Fruity pebbles smoke,

got me moving slow,

And emptying out the store,

But there’s always more,

Your obvious patterns make me bored,

To my core,

So I just ignore,

Don’t make me snore,

Instead, do me like a chore.