O
Oh,steam iron how I love your heat
And how you make my clothes so neat.
A flat iron is no use to me
No open fire is here,you see.
And thought I liked the flickering coals
I feared those faces that looked droll.
They were in the flames and peered
At anyone who ventured near.
I wonder how the people past
Kept their trousers neat and pressed.
Now I’ve bought a hand steamer
To keep the germs off my femurs
I didn’t like to say,my crotch
In case the devil is on watch.
I never ever used to think
My body perfume was distinct.
And yet it may appeal to men
I don’t want to try again.
One dear husband is enough
Though he did enjoy a cough
He had asthma and bad eyes
Looking out with wild surmise.
He saw my golden hair float by
As by his window it did fly
All at once he fell for me
And we sat by an apple tree.
His clothes were wrinkled so I thought
I would iron them for a start.
He could darn and polish floors
Cook lamb chops and apple cores.
So my steam iron sees much use
I wonder if it’s self abuse
For as a woman feminist
I’m not meant to iron vests
I’m not meant to boil men;s socks
Nor their pants of interlock
I’m not meant to make them tea.
What a naughty person,me!
I must confess these wicked sins
Then I’ll polish my cake tins.
Satan wants me down in hell
Don’t say he needs my iron as well
As he was an angel proud
I’ll save him into One Drive Cloud.
How my heart sings 