Maid in Heaven

There once was an angel
Who dwelled in heaven
And on one fateful day
Turned three-hundred eleven

Now this seraph was puzzled
By one mortal's devotion
To something as strange
As a fish-filled ocean

He was known as “The Prophet,”
For he’d rant and he’d preach
On how we’d have more ocean
If we had less beach.

“If seven maids with seven mops
Swept for half a year,
Do you suppose,” The Prophet said,
“That they could get it clear?”

And with this dire thought
Clutched firm in his hand
The Prophet went searching
For maids who’d sweep sand.

He searched high and low
And came back with three,
Who said they would work
For a small service fee.

The Prophet agreed,
And he showed them the gold.
So with mops in hand
They did as were told.

Now what you must know
Is that angels are blessed,
And on their birthdays
With mortals they jest.

(So if you ever feel
You’re being played the fool…
There’s probably some angel
Who thinks it’s quite cool.)

And so did this angel
Return the sand,
After each maid was done,
Back to where it began.

Many seraphs were eager
To join in the prank.
Because most humans are dull
To be brutally frank.

But the maids had been paid
And would see their task done
So they swept on from dusk
‘Til the rise of the sun.

Each maid had blisters,
Eyes bleary and sore.
Yet no angel’d had a birthday
Since two weeks before.

The Prophet was beaming
With his dream completed.
The ocean was free
And the sand…defeated.

With joy in his heart
He preached (briefly) some lore:
“These jewels of the ocean air
Shall sweep the sands no more!”

And the angels, all pallid and wan
Uprising, unveiling, tirade
That the play is the tragedy: sand,
And its hero the Conquering Maid.