Nan folds men’s threads plaited, straight;
It makes a mockery of thoughts in college days.
She tosses back wine—Chardonnay.
It’s a death sentence or a wait at hell’s gate;
It’s ’cause she’s ironing. . .this work stinks!

It’s high pain, post-the-wedding day,
This ain’t glee time—it’s wasting away,
There was good advice that she just didn’t take:
Nan, clew that knot not—stay single!

Mr. Play It Late is out with they guys.
She’s got his suit placed on the board; the temp’s high
On appliance whose reliance must be right.
It makes her brain crash—lousy job!
Hell, by contrast, nice,
Compared to this ironing. So she thinks

It fries brain, post-the-wedding day,
This ain’t glee time—slaving for no pay,
There was good advice that she just didn’t take:
Nan, clew not that knot—stay single!

Hell’s rife with eternal flame; this freaking job is, too!
Taking kinks out of that chambray, and then setting it alight,
This wife has to quell the flame that melts the ’ester vest
That soon is a crisp and gone.
And acrid fumes waft up to her face.

Then fire flames, it’s getting away,
This ain’t glee time—baking’s the chambray,
Now some good advice that she must really take:
Damn huge, that fire’s hot! Extinguish!!

It’s a quash-it blast, and the flames then abate.
There a slow-smoking rime where once chic threads’d await
For ferrous flat to zoom past, fast, fab threads sans strife,
Even fleeing past the damn seams.
Joy’s fleeting in the life of a wife.

She’s ditching the ironing—what she thinks.
She’s sick of the ironing and getting out all the wrink[le]s.

She takes train from that wretched place,
It’s a glee ride—back at the house, a trace
Of spark’s live, and the flames start, race.
Damn huge fire—all’s lost but linens.
And isn’t that ironic, don’t you think?

Ire has a funny way of sneaking up on you;
Fire has a funny, runaway of helping you out,
Melting your house.