You incompetent idiots. You think you can clean,
but your work isn't even fit for a queen.
As you run the mop across the floor, I cover my yawn
full of bore. You call that clean? "Wash me," the floor
screams. As the sprays hit the ground, I imagine the
splattering of brains. As the matter speckles the
ceiling, a smile spreads across my face. I drop my
hammer and ponder what I shall use next. As I
pick up my chains, I keep in mind,
"Out damned spot. Out!" Will bleach get the blood
out of the curtains? Ah yes, peace washes over me as
the screams die down. A piece of skull here, a puddle
of unidentifiable fluid there. Yes, my work is almost
Throw the windows open, flip on the fan, and grab the
toxic chemicals. You want clean? I'll show you clean.
The tunes of pleads fill my ears, and I hum along as I
scrub my territory spotless. As I sit in bed and let the
remains of my heart decorate the walls, my spectators
cheer, and jab at me. You wanted clean,
didn't you? Well then, clean up this mess in my mind.
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