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!
