A trip to the ironing room
Always ends with a crude discomfort
Whether 'tis my glazing eye that
Turns the infirmary's marshal
Into a repellent mess
Or a true wonder-ability of spotting
Moldy men
After a trip to the ironing room
I enter the dormitory
.with a weeping stomach
After watching the doctor-proctor
And his old servants
(with old brown dresses)
Ironing the children with magical
Pharmaceuticals
And me getting mad
Over petty things and starting squabbles
I enter the dormitory
.With a squeamish sense of self