Maid or made, she said it didn't matter as long as the damn spot got good and out, because she was exhausted from the stories and yarns and tall tales told to the nosy nells and busy body servants. White whine whatever. Red wine only on Sundays, and all the other days that rhyme. The ancient mariner's body and the blood of the Fisher King. Risen on the third but fallen again on the fourth, Judas playing Christ playing the Messiah. Not the alpha but the beta. And still the omega. A write mess, but someone had to clean it up. That's me, MM, sweeping up the popcorn and ticket stubs after the curtains fell and before the Acts began. Tell me again. Why am I the maid?
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