The bell tolls at five a.m
Dress, pray, start the day.
Nothing to eat but humble pie.
March in line to the laundry.
Tubs of suds turned murky grey
with the dirt from prison clothes
scrubbed till knuckles bled,
then I burn myself on the iron.
Pray aloud for forgiveness
Number 44 is pregnant
The men found 79 too pretty
Number 127 was, I've heard,
a bit of a rebel at school.
All just cause to lose their lives,
do the time for being young
in Dublin's fair city – what a pity
no one knows we are here at all.
Pray, but don't think of the words.
The Little Sisters of Mercy –
that's a joke. They say
they're saving <i>our</i> souls from damnation
I hope they'll forfeit their own!
There's many a girl in an unmarked grave
inside the laundry grounds.
All the babes have been taken away
to be given a better life.
Suffer the children to come unto me…
Darkness falls and we get to eat
the single meal of our godless day…
but before we do we have to say
how grateful we are for our blessings.
A cold hard bed is waiting for me
to take me far away…to home,
but before I sleep I a say a prayer
one I really mean
And now I lay me down to sleep
I pray the Lord my soul to keep
If I should die before I wake
I pray the Lord my soul to take…
Away from the Magdalene Laundry.Posted by Midus at May 2, 2003 07:14 PM