There is a school for domestic maids; an all-girls school with a small quota for leftover, choiceless boys

They are taught the magic of invisibility, and charms of bladder control

There are pop-quizzes on techniques of mopping

And the hands that go up in the air first are given discount coupons for mending their soon-to-be-broken backs

There’s dessert with lunch for those who can search for the dingiest corner to sit in

And, Professor We-Are-Doing-You-A-Favour teaches the fine conversational techniques

Of asking for a holiday, or if their residual self-respect is in mood to take a hit, for a raise

There are fashion shows where pretty maids walk the ramp 

Displaying the aspirational balance between clean and underprivileged

Make no mistake, the school never sucks out their self-worth completely, because a little bit is required for their honesty

But anything more than that is chopped off like grown nails at the assembly

I recommend the graduates from this school from experience

They are maids who can see the lines of our imaginary class that we’ve come to blindly accept 

Never giving us the utter inconvenience of asking them to tread carefully at the risk of sounding like a tyrant

Honestly, what else do we need?