For all the insults I gave you my smiles,
stood death blown in your sunshade,
when you hated me with passion
that the iron spiders plotted in your hollow chest
I was silent;
and now I can't let you in,
I paid enough of your sin.
For all the mishaps I had a hearth for you,
stood death blown in your sunshade,
when you compelled my affection
to forgive you all the dark light of a candle
I was silent;
and now I return the pain,
and all the love I gave.
Easy pretty, it's getting worse,
you can't cut me open.
You can't do me by force.
Before I immerse in you,
and feel that unspoken devotion,
before I disperse, in flame,
my hearth will be hopeless { for you};
but my pride is beaten by the pain,
so I will sicken you, and get well.
Easy, my pretty,
In the thousand years, with force,
I can't be broken.
I'm not your wooden horse.
It's your fashion to belt me around your left leg,
it's your style to welt me over and over again;
but my pride is beaten by the pain,
so I will sicken you, and get well.
{So pretty, go to hell, and get well}
