My man brings me the finer things,

He looks through my tears,

As he buys me the next diamond ring.

And the soul in that diamond sings,

Like I was the whole shop itself,

As he compares me to its shine and glimmer.

It is though,

When I looked down at my hand,

That he so terribly grabs into his,

Am I his wife who sweeps him to glee?

And then,

When I sweep up and around our tiny home,

I always kick past the innocence of the smiling garden Nome,

Though I didn't see its resting post,

The small thing saw me.

It's plush fall on the leaves,

Oh, how it reminds me of the every day swing,

I can't shout at my husband,

Not when he scrapes his hands; to pull up roses and reaps my dreams.

Is that what it means?

When he swallows his pride,

And delivers a bended knee?

Oh dear God,

I'll sprang my back,

If only you'll show him,

The wounds I bring.