When I'm lugged out, he'll still be good for that. How well I might have swept his floors for ever. I'd ask no nights off when the bustle's over, Enjoying so the dirt. I'd love to be a sweep, now, black as Town, Yes, or a muckman. Dead men may envy living mites in cheese, Or good germs even.
Microbes have their joys, And subdivide, and never come to death.
I shall be one with nature, herb, and stone,' Shelley would tell me. Pushing up daisies' is their creed, you know. For all the usefulness there is in soap. Friend, be very sure I shall be better off with plants that share More peaceably the meadow and the shower. Soft rains will touch me, - as they could touch once, And nothing but the sun shall make me ware.