Through The Pitch Black Doorway
She works in the laundry
Or so she says
With her woollen hat
And her dark dark hair
And her pristine apron
And her old fashioned dress
She works in the laundry
Is what she says
Through the pitch black doorway
And the damp brick work
And under the rusted sign
And the expensive white lace curtains
She works in the laundry
Only she says
As she stands in the doorway, her hands on her hips
And yet no clothes are washed
And no clothes are dried
And she never ever goes inside
She works in the laundry
She will continue to say as nothing is seen
And she never leaves
And no one goes in
And nothing is heard
Except the cries of a woman behind the expensive white lace curtains
And everyone knows she doesn't work in the laundry.
Do you ever write something and was like... meh, this will do.
