So, you don't think I can control things?
Is it the speeding tickets;
The dribble on my chin;
Or is it this obnoxious handful of thumbs
wanting warm gloves to go in?
Maybe the picketing houseplants
make you think I'm out of line
I'm sure the neighbours can't see me
In my backyard diamond mine
all eyes are on Julie
while I'm spinning thread
If money came from my hands
you'd be rubbish on alley side
But since bread must still be baked
I must tend the oven fire
even if I have to step on toes
you're the drop in the rose
keep saying you love me
I need that food.