Greg’s a hill giant and a good handmaid,
He’s 60 feet tall and his hands are splayed,
He’ll reach every single giant house nook,
Dust every surface of every giant book.
His feather duster is a big palm tree,
It sets the football-sized dust balls free.
Greg works mostly for the giants of gold,
The ones of ancient-y kind of old.
The dishes he does with the water of a lake;
Orange rind mountains and hills of cake.
You could feed a Finland or two,
With giant leftovers, couldn’t you?
The dust mites harangue real tanks for leisure,
Eating up cows is their favorite pleasure.
Greg just grabs his giant mite-hoover,
Sucks them up, the better, the sooner.
He evicts the people living in the giant-mansions,
No free rides or affirmative actions.
Scoops them up with a dust pan, red,
Throws them out, alive or dead.
Greg takes pleasure in what he does,
Some animal activists might make a fuss,
Those silly things, they’re vermin, that’s all,
Greg thinks to himself and makes the right call.
No more pests, the house is clean,
The owners tip him when its state is seen.
“Thank you Greg, you loyal aid,
That Anti-leniency of yours? A Grade!”
Greg thanks his Massers, heavier than him,
The money from their pockets now heavy on his limb.