THE IRONING BOARD BLUES, BY STEVIE TURNER

COPYRIGHT STEVIE TURNER 2019

When I was but twelve years old

My mother said to me,

Somewhere a woman irons shirts

Of the boy you’ll one day marry.

I met the ironer of his shirts

When I was twenty one.

She could hardly bear the sight of me,

When I took away her son.

Ironing his shirts then fell to me,

After we were wed.

His mum threw her iron on the floor

And wished that I was dead.

After seven years of wedded bliss,

I’d had enough of ironing.

He’d never offer to help at all,

My love for him was expiring.

I showed him how to use an iron

He burned his favourite shirt.

He watched with green-eyed envy

As I pressed my cotton skirt.

“You’ll soon get the hang of it”

I said to my erstwhile lover.

He thought a bit, smashed down the iron

And telephoned his mother.

Round she came, that vexatious witch,

That thorn in my backside.

She gave me a glare

While standing there

So angry I’d not yet died.

“Bring me your shirts, you lovely boy

Bring every shirt you’ve got.”

She starts to rant.

“Bring trousers and pants

I’ll do the bloody lot!”

With a gimlet eye I asked her,

“D’you fancy doing my stuff?

I’m never ironing another thing.

I’ve laboured long enough.”

A middle finger was raised to me

And so it’s safe to say,

Mother-in-law won’t be ironing

My skirts and dresses today!