plague in the workhouse, a plague on the poor
Now Ill beat on my [bad word] til Im dead
Yesterday, a fever, tomorrow, St. Peter
Ill beat on my [bad word] until then.

But what melody will lead my lover from his bed?
What melody will see him in my arms again?

Set fire to foundation and burn out the station
Youll never get nothing of mine
The pane of my window will flicker and billow
I wont leave a stitching behind

But what melody will lead my lover from his bed?
What melody will see him in my arms again?

Ill sing of the walls of the well and the house at the top of the hill
Ill sing of the bottles of wine that we left on our old windowsill
Ill sing of the years you will spend getting sadder and older
Oh love, and the cold, the [bad word] cold