I like it    I don't like it

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 streaming 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 the 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 they'll plant me in the dirt

Like some lame bulb

That never blooms come any spring

Not any spring

No, not any spring

Not any spring