Don't Call Me Now

I'm mowing the lawn - a voice suddenly calls out,
up to my ears in grass cuttings when I heard the shout:
'Come and love me!' You must be joking, surely not now,
but if I don't, I'm probably in for an unfortunate row.

'Food is ready,' a piercing cry tells me to do as I'm told,
'You'd better come now before it bloody well gets cold;'
there are no exceptions, never any real place to hide,
otherwise I may find out, that's when the devil will ride.

'Can you spare a moment,' pleasant, wonders never cease,
still a nuisance when I'm writing a literary masterpiece,
no love, no food, no writing - only a prolonged earful,
somehow through all of this, I manage to remain cheerful.

Do your duties, let's face it - it's best to keep the status quo,
but when I'll win the Nobel prize for literature, I just don't know.