Irony of the Iron

There's nothing whatsoever the matter with ironing
Its quiet and comforting, sometimes inspiring
Smoothing down folds, along creases and seams
There's much time to think, reflect on your dreams
That cosy and homely, warm smelling sound
As the iron trundles back and then glides around

The ironing board wobbles as if with delight
But together they rest, a rewarding sight
A hollow sounding squeak, and often a click
As the thermostat switches, an electrical trick
But suddenly a hiss, from its mouth comes a shot
Steam all around and you know that means hot

Then sadly the calm has been taken away
As impatient thoughts seem to come into play
The gentle slide of that smoothing push
Is quickly replaced by an impatient rush
The movements are rapid and it seems like a race
The iron travels faster and hots up the pace

Pressing and pulling all different ways
Turning and twisting until smoothness can stay
The garment gets flatter and quickly gets done
There's no more to do, it was the last one
Switch off the iron, let it cool for a while
Its never quite finished - there starts another pile