Somebody Has Keys To My House

Somebody has keys to my house.
It wasn't me and it wasn't my spouse.
I don't know who it is, but I can tell he was here.
Because he left clues, but the clues are unclear.
And I don't appreciate it; not one little bit.
It's been going on all week and I sick of this shit.
On Monday, while I was at work, somebody raided the 'fridge.
Eating pork chops with ketchup, that son of a bitch.
When I saw the leftover macaroni and cheese
I checked the back lock and re-hid my spare keys.
That's when I discovered what was left behind.
Dirty plates on the table left for me to find.
And then, on Tuesday, I went to the gym,
(I go twice a week to stay fit and trim)
Somebody came in an put on my clothes.
Dunno why, just weird, I suppose.
Then the somebody left my clothes wrinkled and stained
In a pile in my hallway. Mysterious, unexplained.
Then, on Wednesday, I got home from the store,
My mail had been opened, but wait there is more.
I'm beginning to suspect an identity thief
I talked to the cops, but they just gave me grief.
And today, Thursday, I came home in suspense.
Wondering if I might find more evidence.
And there it was on the bowl of potty.
Brown spatters, disgusting, all hardened and spotty.
"That's it! I'm done!" I shouted and cursed.
Dishes and clothes, but this is the worst.
So Friday I'll stay home and call in to work.
That way I'll be sure to catch the jerk.
I'll surprise and trap him and bind him with rope.
And force him to get out my bucket and soap.
And then, by God, he will confess.
As finally, at last, he cleans his own mess.