Black

I think my heart must be made of clay,
'cause everyone said it would be broken someday.
And now I've come to that fateful day,
so I sit on the floor
with my head in my hands.
And don't tell me how to make it pay,
I write a new song every day.
I just wish I was made of wood,
I might not feel pain,
even if I should, even if I should,
if I should.
The sweetest smile that ever did
melt the pats in the butter dish,
and if you could have believed in me,
I swear to God
I'd have made damn sure.
Our hearts were warm, and glad with wine.