The Magdalene Laundries
I was an unmarried girl
I'd just turned twenty-seven.
When they sent me to the sisters
For the way men looked at me.
Branded as a jezebel,
I knew I was not bound for Heaven.
I'd be cast in shame into the Magdalene laundries.
Most girls come here pregnant,
Some by their own fathers.
Bridget got that belly by her parish priest.
We're trying to get things white as snow,
All of us woe-begotten daughters,
In the steaming stains of the Magdalene laundries.
Prostitutes and destitutes, and temptresses like me.
Fallen women sentenced into dreamless drudgery.
Why do they call this heartless place
Our Lady of Charity? Oh, charity!
These bloodless brides of Jesus,
If they had just once glimpsed their groom,
Then they'd know, and they'd drop those stones
Concealed behind their rosaries.
They wilt the grass they walk upon,
They leech the light out of a room,
They'd like to drive us down the drain
At the Magdalene laundries.
Peg O'Connell died today.
She was a cheeky girl, a flirt.
They just stuffed her in a hole!
Surely to God you'd think
At least some bells should ring!
One day I'm going to die here too.
And then they'll plant me in the dirt,
Like some lame bulb
That never blooms come any spring.
Not any spring.
Come any spring, not any spring.
--
※ 發信站: 批踢踢實業坊(ptt.twbbs.org)
◆ From: pc18.cc.ntu.edu.tw