Ballad

Your stuffing's leaking out, my love, The sawdust of your bygone wars. You're coming all apart, my dove, And showing all your secret sores. So let me be your seamstress now, Don't fear my needle's silver gleam. I'll fix you, this I swear and vow, And mend your melancholy dream. Your weary liver, bruised and grey? I'll snip it out with loving care, And give you mine to light your way It's barely used and I can share. Your tired eyes that see the dead? Oh, they shall be my souvenir. I'll give you mine, and in your head, You'll see a world without a tear. My thread is spun from my own hair, My buttons are of polished bone. I'll stitch you up beyond repair, A beautiful chimera of my own. And when I'm done, we'll be one soul, Your mended parts will make me whole.