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The laundry lady, Walks down the stairs, With her slow, lumbering gait, A basket balanced on her hip, She's sorted the laundry wrong again, My socks will be pink for weeks.
A small, ordinary moment sits at the center of this short poem: the laundry lady comes down the stairs carrying a basket, and the speaker realizes she has mixed up the wash once more. The result is that their socks will be pink for weeks.
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