I was gonna write a poem about soap
But I’m no good at poems, so I lost all hope
Aristotle should not run for the role of pope
I would be better, I hope
Even if I continually slip down that endless slope
I am made clean by the dirt and mud.
The earth’s hands purify my own.
Note: This poem was written as part of an activity where members of The Fourth Floor each wrote a line of the poem while only being able to view the previous one.
