Classes of plight

I arrive at dawn, at sharp my time,
to my work, at this place,
going inside, I picked up rags
and any dirt
that I came at.

Cleaning the elegant floor in wood,
I head to wall,
with frames of rich.
Made in England and France and Turkey,
and every silver with heraldic sphere.
The porches so English and
curtains in silk.

I clean them all as every one sees
people are working and no one cares,
'but, clean should be till I am there'
and throwing some wine on the floor,
the man of honor heads for more.
The house is majestic in three
big floor and people like me,
just a few more.
With loads to cook
for the royal lunch,
I get few plants and tons of chicken.

The men are strong with grits in
mind and they respect the
Victorian line.
In every decision in their sharp of
suits of them they are so straight and
talk so rude.

The women are good and dressed so well,
and fedoras their life
with skirts that flare.
They talk to me and ask me well,
but, they are just
confined to hell.
They cant go out or talk to else,
for the men are afraid
of the Queen's wealth.
I cook for all and eat at last,
but, that fine as
I go at last.

The women of British, the women of plight
maintain their decorum and
please their men.

I return in the morning,
for breakfast to cook,
I see them again, so well, so straight,
in honor of the Brooks.