returning the kids on a harried evening

Whose kids these are I think I know.
Her house is in the village though;
She will not see me stopping here
To set them down beside the road.

These little kids must think it queer
That all their lives I've been right near
When I am such an awful flake
They're meant for someone else, that's clear.

I've had about all I can take
I wash, I cook, I clean and bake.
We're standing right here on her street
I hope her household's still awake.

She looks a little like a creep,
Her house pristine, her landscape sleek.
I guess these kids I'd better keep.
I guess these kids I'd better keep. 

~MB~