Paid to wash up, her lack of money drastic,
Fran's hands were old from scrubbing steel and plastic;
the swaying pile of crockery seemed massive,
but she'd plod on, her doughy face impassive.
Behind her back the chambermaids would chatter:
"Fran whispers to herself!" It didn't matter
-- she didn't care what lurid gossip simmered,
for in the depths of murky water shimmered
a dreamworld where the parting clouds of suds
revealed the silverware as sleazy studs
who jostled with each other, entourages
of suave admirers wanting warm massages.
But, seeing the utensils flash and wink,
she brushed them off, her plump face flushing pink.