The Disease

I woke up early this morning
with a noose around my head.
I was dead-weight on my pillow,
I could not get out of bed.
Outside the wind tore into the trees;
this must be some disease.

I’ve worked hard all my life,
and I’m not going anywhere.
But I don’t complain, oh no.
Do I say it’s not fair?
Have I ever asked for a life of ease?
This must be some disease.

She said “well, now baby
what is wrong with you?
You can make me so mad,
I don’t know what to do.
Oh baby listen to me please!
This must be some disease!”

The only thing certain is death and taxes,
And that this world goes round on its axis,
Indifferent to you, devoid of any meaning.
It was an easy birth, why are you still screaming?

I woke up early this morning;
I thought I might be dead.
The dark clouds through the window,
my limbs are made of lead.
The Devil’s whisper rasps through the trees.
This must be some disease.

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