Joanie was an unmarried girl just turned twenty-seven
When they sent her to the sisters because of the way men looked at her
Branded as a jezebel she knew she was not bound for heaven
She had been cast in shame into the Magdalene laundries

Most girls went there pregnant some by their own fathers
Bridget got her belly from the Parish Priest
They're trying to wash things as white as snow, all of those woe-begotten daughters
In the steaming stains of the Magdalene laundries

Prostitutes and destitutes and temptresses like Joanie
Fallen women sentenced into dreamless drudgery
Why do the call this place "Our Lady of Charity"?
Of Charity?

These bloodless brides of Jesus if they could just once glimpse their groom
They'd drop the stones concealed behind their rosaries
They wilt the grass they walk upon they leech the light out of a room
They'd like to wash those girls down the drains of The Magdalene Laundries

Peg O'Connell died today, she was a cheeky girl, they stuffed her in a hole
Surely to God you'd think at least some bells should ring
Joanie thinks she'll die there too and that they'll tramp her in the dirt
Like some lame bulb that never will bloom when the springtime comes
When the springtime comes