| I was an unmarried girl
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| I’d just turned twenty-seven
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| When they sent me to the sisters
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| For the way men looked at me Branded as a jezebel
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| I knew I was not bound for Heaven
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| I’d be cast in shame
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| Into the Magdalene laundries
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| Most girls come here pregnant
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| Some by their own fathers
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| Bridget got that belly
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| By her parish priest
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| We’re trying to get things white as snow
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| All of us woe-begotten-daughters
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| In the streaming stains
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| Of the Magdalene laundries
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| Prostitutes and destitutes
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| And temptresses like me--
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| Fallen women--
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| Sentenced into dreamless drudgery …
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| Why do they call this heartless place
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| Our Lady of Charity?
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| Oh charity!
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| These bloodless brides of Jesus
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| If they had just once glimpsed their groom
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| Then they’d know, and they’d drop the stones
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| Concealed behind their rosaries
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| They wilt the grass they walk upon
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| They leech the light out of a room
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| They’d like to drive us down the drain
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| At the Magdalene laundries
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| Peg O’Connell died today
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| She was a cheeky girl
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| A flirt
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| They just stuffed her in a hole!
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| Surely to God you’d think at least some bells should ring!
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| One day I’m going to die here too
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| And they’ll plant me in the dirt
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| Like some lame bulb
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| That never blooms come any spring
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| Not any spring
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| No, not any spring
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| Not any spring |