Gripped it was, an ardent brush,
that made the cleaner warm,
to be involved, made heart go rush,
they thanked that they were born,
for godly sweeps, made the fold,
that kept the way so safe,
such vocation, bore the gold
and paved a path called faith,
a witch’s car, did paint a grin,
when used upon the floor,
not sky high, to write fake sin,
by those who liked the gore,
in such a place, where dirt resides,
this tool became a light,
where good example, was its glides,
scrubbing up a fight,
but lo’ the weakened crook,
has entered winter years,
dear caretaker, cannot look,
passed their veiled tears,
broken broom retires,
by bathing in the flames,
of proud manmade fires,
hiding all the shames.