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A funny poem maid just for amusement |
There once was an angel Who dwelled in heaven And on one fateful day Turned three-hundred eleven Now this seraph was puzzled By one mortal's devotion To something as strange As a fish-filled ocean He was known as “The Prophet,” For he’d rant and he’d preach On how we’d have more ocean If we had less beach. “If seven maids with seven mops Swept for half a year, Do you suppose,” The Prophet said, “That they could get it clear?” And with this dire thought Clutched firm in his hand The Prophet went searching For maids who’d sweep sand. He searched high and low And came back with three, Who said they would work For a small service fee. The Prophet agreed, And he showed them the gold. So with mops in hand They did as were told. Now what you must know Is that angels are blessed, And on their birthdays With mortals they jest. (So if you ever feel You’re being played the fool… There’s probably some angel Who thinks it’s quite cool.) And so did this angel Return the sand, After each maid was done, Back to where it began. Many seraphs were eager To join in the prank. Because most humans are dull To be brutally frank. But the maids had been paid And would see their task done So they swept on from dusk ‘Til the rise of the sun. Each maid had blisters, Eyes bleary and sore. Yet no angel’d had a birthday Since two weeks before. The Prophet was beaming With his dream completed. The ocean was free And the sand…defeated. With joy in his heart He preached (briefly) some lore: “These jewels of the ocean air Shall sweep the sands no more!” And the angels, all pallid and wan Uprising, unveiling, tirade That the play is the tragedy: sand, And its hero the Conquering Maid. |