Mould

Mould isn't fussy about where it grows;
In the fruit salad, between my toes.
You’ll sometimes find it under the bed,
And sometimes round the plug,
Maybe growing on some bread,
Or in my abandoned coffee mug.
It maybe nestling on the windowsill,
Driven inside by the winter chill,
Or huddled in the depths of fridge,
Sprouting on jam, denied sandwich;
It always seems to find some place
My Dettox hasn't got.
You know as far as I’m concerned
The stuff can go and rot.