To the garbage-man here is my ode: Mountains of that waste you load Purity's all owed to you Out early 'fore the morning dew To the mortician I must say: I hope I do not pass today But if I do, I should be proud to have you there to cast my shroud To the cleaner debt is due: Every space is clean and new Plague fears even your approach ward off danger with soapy moat To the chimney-sweep, and to the whore, to leftovers and the impure: We cannot just praise what is pure life isn't always so secure Invite her to your low high-tea Goddess impure Matangi Leftovers she may well eat Walk over ashes in bare feet in the forest, with nature sits as dirty as she sees fit Sans unclean, there is no pure for who removes the dirt, that chore for all those who outcasts be give thy praise to Matangi