I’m haunted by how fun it was,
To play around, to get a buzz.
We trashed the house and didn’t care,
We had time and cash to spare.
But when that light began to fade,
I searched for you: a lowly maid.
I thought of you to clean the house.
Underpaid, a silent mouse.
A church mouse with nothing more to do,
Than sniff around all my mildew,
bottles and cans all shattered here.
At this point, the truth still wasn’t clear.
I expected you to wash my dirt;
You handed me a woollen skirt.
And just to match, a snow-white blouse;
You were the owner of the house.
The landlord doing every chore,
While I poured pitch across the floor.
As I ignored this fact I knew,
I did the things I knew to do.
There was one mess I did not make,
Those bloody stains too harsh to fake.
I was angry, “What have you done?”
“Trust me, child, this wasn’t fun.”
“Just clean it up and do your job!”
That’s when I heard the servant sob.
His tears covered that bloody floor,
“That’s enough, now! Please, no more!”
But he cried and cried all through the night,
Tears that washed that blood from sight.
Now it was he with blood-shot eyes,
Piercing sobriety, no hint of lies.
“I’ve done everything you’ve asked of me,
But I can’t do more than this, you see?”
“If the cleaner is messy, I refuse to pay!”
But still he showed up every day.
Then I would come home late and loud,
He showed up early, never proud.
I asked him why he works for free.
“Oh, my sweet child! You work for me.
And every day that we’re apart
I think of ways to win your heart.”
He explained the blood came from his hand,
And I began to understand.
He said he knit me in the womb,
I hesitantly took the broom.
And as he handed work to me,
Holes in his palms were plain to see.
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