The rusty old iron rests on the shelf
Dusty and ruff ‘it’s all by its self
Imagine the day when it shone and was smooth
Sitting and waiting for its self to be moved
It’s used when lines and creases are found
It makes a hissing, burning sound
The user gets stressful, board and tired
As once again the stove is fired

The iron gets heave and aches her arm
The hot under belly could do serious harm
When all is done, clothes are folded and pressed
For today, the iron has past its last test
It’s rested on its triangle stand
Back on the shelf as its next day is planned

Many years later at a street garage sale
Cold as stone and looking quite frail
Sits the old tool of metal
Where it’s now come to settle
That rust and dusty old iron