Eydent, thon's ma maw,
nae yin tae staun arms plet.
She'd raither knock hir pan in - bidin at peace jist maks hir fret.
She hus a hert-likin fur hoosework that Ah fin gey queer -
But as she redds up, Ah redd doon, sae Ah rackon Ah'm in the clear.
Hir white washin pooder's hir hoose-froo's traisure,
Fur daein a wash is mah mam's greatest pleesure.
She'll ca' throu claes fur the weest drooth;
Gangs oot tae the green, basket fu', pegs at mooth.
Simmets then breeks in a perfit raw,
A' pegged jist richt tae get the blaw.
Then bigger claes, colour-codet nae tae clash,
Fur mixter-maxter'll mak siccar that she'll fash.
Left tae me, wance oan the streetch, it's therr an therr it bides.
"Nae guid," she mumps aneath hir braith, "ye mun toast claes baith
She's affy sweirt tae miss a day: she hates a mocket hoose.
But never fear, she'll fin a way - Maw Washer's on the loose!
Like gas oan the peep, she jouks in an oot,
She's in a reet tizz, fur the smirr's aboot.
Aw naw, the rain, it's cam oan tae pelt, - ma mammy's goanie froon.
She cannae wash, but dis she fash? Naw, she jist stoors the hoose