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.

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