Washed, in need of cleansing,
Clean and soiled again,
The laundered clothes are muddied
more often than they’re clean.
It’s a never ending cycle
as heartless as the mud.
The scrubbing wears the fingers down,
the lines they move from thumb to brow,
and the task is never finished
till the earth runs out of dirt.
Stand proud for the rain falls on you.
Sing out for the dirt will not win,
and clothes will be white again.