We are the laundry lasses, Florrie and Jessie and Jean,

hands red raw from washing with lye, hair frizzed in the steam.

You can hear our dollies thumping every washing day,

Our kingdom is the Laundry Room, we are queens of all we survey.

Our Lord and Lady are hospitable,

to keep their linens clean is nigh on impossible.

Water boils on the fire and muscled like men,

we lug buckets to coppers again and again.

Cleanliness is next to godliness the vicars preach

But we know what goes on between the sheets.

We are goddesses of spotlessness,

washing out sins and the ways of the flesh.

Feed the sheets through the wringer.

We’ve all managed to crush a finger,

plunged it in cold water, tried not to cry,

then back to work to squeeze the cotton dry.

We starch frothy frills of lace,

tease each delicate stitch into place,

heat the iron on the fire, careful not to scorch,

until our arms are aching like a blacksmith at his forge.

Best of all when the lines on the drying green

are pegged with sheets dancing in Spring sunshine.

Shirts and smalls up on the dolly rack.

Pull on the rope and hope it doesn’t snap.

Layer with lavender sprigs to keep them smelling fresh.

No soot or smuts must spoil their whiteness.

We are the laundry lasses, Florrie and Jessie and Jean,

Queens of the laundry room who keep gentlefolk clean.