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"mophead" poems
It's about 2:30 in the morning there you stand a janitor weilding your gigantic paintbrush in a full jumpsuit and a bald cap. Nobody's around. The mophead slaps the ground you dance with it Swirling it all across the checkered tile with such grace and such beauty! Soak Swash Squeeze Repeat. What magnificent art Such extraordinary masterpieces being created night after night across this marble floor! Why, Michaelangelo would be turning in his grave! A shame though, That the paint is clear and it dries away in about 15-20 minutes and no one will ever see or know the greatest art ever created by you, the unknown custodian, the master of sanitations, the mop artist.
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Feb 10, 2014
Feb 10, 2014 at 12:16 AM UTC
dane-perczak
The Mop Artist
It's about 2:30 in the morning there you stand a janitor weilding your gigantic paintbrush in a full jumpsuit and a bald cap. Nobody's around. The mophead slaps the ground you dance with it Swirling it all across the checkered tile with such grace and such beauty! Soak Swash Squeeze Repeat. What magnificent art Such extraordinary masterpieces being created night after night across this marble floor! Why, Michaelangelo would be turning in his grave! A shame though, That the paint is clear and it dries away in about 15-20 minutes and no one will ever see or know the greatest art ever created by you, the unknown custodian, the master of sanitations, the mop artist.
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