I can’t hate your flapping mouth,
iron pelican; I care
nothing ‘bout their slander, ‘bout
stereotypes: I’ll scrub you fair.
¡But I did clean your bathroom! ¡How rude!
(Laugh track’s stabbed your back, my man.)
«You can’t scrub the rust from rust;
dust shall always stick to dust.»
Gray-brown seaweed clings my hands &
drags them drain-down, drowning ‘neath
water will not drain @ random.
Now this nightmare ne’er comes clean.
Till toilet flushes wake us, & we drown
in boiling tubs o’ fresh blood with a frown.
Don’t those vacuums suck, ¿‘mirite?
But a’least I’m clean this time.