To clean or not to clean -- that is the question:
Whether ‘tis nobler for the floors to suffer
The grime and muck of a rotting home,
Or to take a mop against a sea of filth
And, by scouring, end them. To deterge, to cease --
no more -- and by a cease to say we eliminate
The back pains and the thousand cramps
That hands are heir to -- ‘tis an aspiration
Devoutly to be imagined. To deterge, to cease --
To cease, perchance to breathe…
Ay, there’s the rub,
For in that lack of cleanliness, what pests may come,
When we have stopped scrubbing off this putrefied crud,
Must give us pause. There’s the root
That makes calamity of so long life
For who would bear the swelling and burning of limbs,
Th’ advertisement lies, the proud seller’s tale.
The pangs of agony rushing through one’s body,
The brazenness of industries,
and the nonexistent care offered by marketeers,
the artificial smells piercing through a nose,
When she herself might her cleansing make,
With an old broom?