Classic Poem

“There has been a heap of rubbish dumped about the patient seas,
And all cleaning hitherto has been a sham;
It is time for my spring cleaning—and I hope you catch my meaning—
For I'm going to clean 'em out,” says Uncle Sam.
“And I'm going to rinse 'em down,
And I'm going to soak 'em out,
And I'm going to sponge 'em off and make 'em clean;
And I'll do a handsome job with my scrubbing brush and swab,
And I'll give a different aspect to the scene.

On the Philippines, a dumpground for the mediæval truck
And the old miasmal rubbish heaps of Spain,
I began my vernal cleaning—and I think they know my meaning—
For I turned my hose upon them at full strain.
And I guess I swabbed 'em down,
And I guess I rubbed it in,
And I guess I swashed 'em off and made 'em clean;
And when I've wiped 'em dry with my army mop, says I,
There'll be a different aspect to the scene.

And I'll clean off Porto Rico and I'm going to wipe it dry,
And poor filth-infested Cuba must be clean;
Four hundred years of lumber that its rubbish holes encumber—
If you wait you'll see it burn like kerosene.
And I guess I'll soap 'em down,
And I guess I'll scour 'em off,
And I guess I'll turn my hose on at full strain;
And then, when I am through, then old Cuba will be new,
And there won't be any rubbish heaps of Spain.

She has blotted all the oceans and I'll wipe her off the seas,
And I'll cleanse the cluttered islands of her slime;
And this is just the meaning of my vigorous spring cleaning—
Fate's washing-day has come—and it is time
And I guess when I have soaped 'em,
And I guess when I have wrung 'em,
And I guess when I have hung 'em out to dry,
Not a single blot of Spain on an island shall remain,
And I think that they'll feel cleaner then, says I.”