Life is a laundry in which we
Are ironed out, or soon or late.
Who has not known the irony
Of fate?
We enter it when we are born,
Our colors bright. Full soon they fade.
We leave it “done up,” old and worn,
And frayed;
Frayed round the edges, worn and thin —
Life is a rough old linen slinger.
Who has not lost a button in
Life's wringer?
With other linen we are tubbed,
With other linen often tangled;
In open court we then are scrubbed,
And mangled.
Some take a gloss of happiness
The hardest wear can not diminish;
Others, alas! get a “domes-
Tic finish.”