Last week I sang a song to get me through;
the song I sang was you.
And I declare, I do not care
If that song I sang was true.

Well, I found out it wasn’t, dear,
but it’s a song I love to hear
even so.  Yeah, yes I know.
Don’t worry, she made it clear.

I won’t be at your door tomorrow.
I won’t be at your door to borrow
butter, flour, sugar, eggs,
all the things it takes to make
myself the finest wedding cake.
All those shells that I will break,
I will break for you.

This week I met the woman that you chose
to hang your trousers by her hose,
with those quiet eyes
no one down between her thighs.

And bursting with excitement of the new,
she told me about you.
Well, she declared how much she cared,
just knowing that her love was true.

She will be at my door tomorrow.
She will be at my door to borrow
butter, flour, sugar, eggs,
all the things it takes to make
myself the finest wedding cake.
All those shells that she will break,
she will break for you.

I see the wink of your eye,
hinting at better times.
Hinting, and you remind me
you never kept promises, anyway.

But quiet dear, the cake will fall, the cake will fall,
It’s gonna fall.

This Tuesday at a café I observed
a young bride having some dessert.
She took it with a man,
wearing no ring on her hand.

And as I looked I saw above her smile
a pair of quiet eyes.
She’d seen the new and gotten crude
she wanted something oversize.

You will be at my door tomorrow.
You will be at my door to borrow
anything you need,
a candlestick, a tumbleweed,
a woman with an itch to scratch,
a bed on which to lay your back, and
we will break your vows together.
We will break your vows together.

Copyright (c) Lizzy Ross 2009