My poem - The Life and Times of Molly Dodd

​The Life and Times of Molly Dodd

Oh, Ma! Don’t leave me at the poorhouse door;
It’s cold. I’m tired and me legs are sore.
I’ll be good. I promise. I’ll not cause you to fret.
Let’s go home right now, and our dinners I’ll get.
Stale bread and warm water like we always do,
And I’ll find a few carrots to make us a stew.

Oh, Misses!  Don’t make me scrub the scullery floor;
Me knees are blue and me hands are raw.
I’ve worked this past month without one day of rest;
If it’s me soul you’re after you’ve had the best.
Me, I seem to get no joy out of life;
Despite me best efforts, it’s all toil and strife.

Oh, Mister! Don’t make me stand at the loom all day.
I work hard for you for so little pay.
The factory air is making me ill, and though
Me back’s breaking I work hard for you still.
There’s trouble brewing. There’s talk of a strike.
If it’s profit you want, you better start treating me right.

Oh, my dear! Don’t pester me to make love to thee;
I want you sure. But we got no money for three.
We said we’d wait for a bairn when we got wed;
In these hard times it’s best to plan ahead.
From hand to mouth we live each day, or else
We pawn and get on tick what we cannot pay.

Oh, daughter! It’s only the poorhouse. Don’t you fear.
It’s best this way. They’ll look after you here.
Your dad had a drink, and he beat me sore.
Out of work for months, and he couldn’t take it no more.
Where he is now? I just don’t know. Don’t fret,
​I’ll come for you soon, luv. So... in you go.