Hark; for dishcloth wisdom,
from them; who stand at bowl,
they’re the ones; who clean it all
the mess; that’s our control,
rehash the dirt division,
polish those crown jewels,
and hoover every battlefield
to bury war-dead mules,
press the bleeper button,
instruct; all offence,
dictate all our opinion
at a woodworm garden fence,
with pride; they wear the grime,
that has become the way,
thus, let this dishcloth wisdom
light up; every single day.