The Good Front Room

The brasses were shinning

While my fingers were black,

Black from the brasso.

The windows were sparkling

While my fingers were black,

Black from the newsprint.

The grate was squeaky clean

While my fingers were black,

Black from the thick soot.

The rug pile was standing proud

While my fingers were black,

Black from swirling dust.

The piano keys were twinkling in wait

While my fingers were black,

Black from the layers of lemon oil and buff.

The good front room was spick and span

While my fingers were black

Black with the evidence for all to see.