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 yawnfull of bore. You call that clean? "Wash me," the floorscreams. As the sprays hit the ground, I imagine thesplattering of brains. As the matter speckles theceiling, a smile spreads across my face. I drop myhammer and ponder what I shall use next. As Ipick up my chains, I keep in mind,"Out damned spot. Out!" Will bleach get the bloodout of the curtains? Ah yes, peace washes over me asthe screams die down. A piece of skull here, a puddleof unidentifiable fluid there. Yes, my work is almostcomplete.Throw the windows open, flip on the fan, and grab thetoxic chemicals. You want clean? I'll show you clean.The tunes of pleads fill my ears, and I hum along as Iscrub my territory spotless. As I sit in bed and let theremains of my heart decorate the walls, my spectatorscheer, and jab at me. You wanted clean,didn't you? Well then, clean up this mess in my mind.