My broom feels misused--
It wants to go on strike.
Poor thing only sweeps hair
It wants to try dust, dirt, sand,
Maybe even rocks, anywhere.

Of course, I'm to blame
For I cut the short, long,
Fine, thick, black, brown,
Red, blonde, gray hair
That falls to the floor
Without a care!

Now, I do not wish to
Abuse my broom, no way,
So I must convey what
My broom means to me
Don't you see?

Perhaps, after a falling rain,
It could sweep some dry mud
Even sticks and dirty leaves,
And would not complain.
I will do my best to let it
Feel worthy and unashamed!