Joni was an unmarried girl
Just turned twenty-seven
When they sent her to the sisters
For the way men looked at her
Branded as a jezebel
She knew she was not bound for Heaven
She’d been cast in shame
Into the Magdalene laundries
Most girls went there pregnant
Some by their own fathers
Bridget got her belly
From the parish priest
They’re trying to get things white as snow
All of those woe-begotten-daughters
In the steaming stains
Of the Magdalene laundries
Prostitutes and destitutes
And temptresses like Joni--
Fallen women--
Sentenced into dreamless drudgery …
Why do they call this heartless place
Our Lady of Charity? Of charity!
These bloodless brides of Jesus
If they could just once glimpse their groom
They’d drop their stones concealed behind their rosaries
They wilt the grass they walk upon
They leech the light out of a room
They’d like to wash those girls down the drains
Of the Magdalene laundries
Peg O’Connell died today she was a cheeky girl
They just stuffed her in a hole!
Surely to God you’d think at least some bells should ring!
Joni thinks she’ll die there too and that they’ll tramp her into the dirt
Like some lame bulb that never will bloom
When the springtime comes