Demolition Dora and the Rubble Rousing Clean Up Gals get a building in their hair and they take it down to air. They take hammers and screwdrivers and a saw to batter walls, they charge at windows. roofs and dentils, they eliminate all halls. They use wrecking balls, suggestions, and a little derring do, until the building that was standing there will make you ask them, “Who?”
They smash the ceilings and the floors, they crash down stories one and two, they dig a tower to a hole, that’s what they do, the whole damn fewmale crew.
Watch out which they’re tearing down, it might be fun to watch the work. Watch out what they’re tearing down, there might be rubble you can sieve, watch out what they’re tearing down, it could just be a sight to see, watch out what they’re tearing down, it might just be the place you live.
The sound is harsh, the sound is tall, the sound of a crash, the sound of a fall, the sound of a town that is going to the hole, the sound of the you that feels the shoe in your sole.
Cyclops has forty eyes but only two ears, and that’s a good thing, for it is easy with two hands to cover up two ears but if the sight of the site were so much worse, she couldn’t stop seeing her fears. She covers her ears, but still she has to look at the veins and the explains and the open sores and the gores of this smash and that one as the old town of Pome Town is brutalized into the face of a wrecking ball.
“What is this, and what goes on?” said Cyclops with her single mouth.
“We are doing our job, we are tearing it down, we are tearing it down, and I like your nice gown,” said Demolition Dora in her work clothes which are a bit dusty from all the tearing and swearing and blaring and scaring.
And the Rubble Rousing Clean Up Gals, who could stand a little cleaning themselves, said, “Nice gown and nice hair, and you well them so wear.”
Cyclops is a little flattered, and she would turn red if she could turn blue if she could so see so with forty eyes taking up so much face real estate, and all that hair leading from her head to the air.
“I think you and I think so and I thank you for the complement, I thank you for your words so meant, I thank you for the dusty day, but what are you doing anyway?” and this says the She-Cyclops in just a little more feminine of a manner than she had her last thing of saying said. It just the power to implement the complement of the hardhat crew.
“We are doing our job,” said Demolition Dora with that swagger of somebody ripping out steel and pulverizing concrete. “It’s a messy job, and it isn’t neat, but somebody has to do it, and that is where we feet.”
Cyclops sees the Pome Town falling. She sees the old places go away under the heavy ball of the wrecking tall. She remembers a thing, and then it is dust. She looks at that once-place and now it looks rust.
“Where am I anyway, and who is this place?” said Cyclops, she-Cyclops, with forty eyes on her face.
Dust smells like dust, and lust tastes like lust. Maybe if she concentrated more on her sense of smell, thinks Cyclops, and she must if she must.
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