I was sick to death
With that long agony
I was permitted to sit
When she bound me
She likes spitting in my face
But I love her so much
She likes spitting in my face
And I tremble at her touch
Cause I'm loving you too much
Cause I'm loving you too much
Cause I'm loving you too much
And I tenderly touch you
But now I float away
To my hideaway
Where you have not been
That you have not seen
Not even in your dreams
She breaks my pride
Can it be right
She burns my barn
She sets it alight
She likes spitting in my face
But I love her so much
She likes spitting in my face
And I tremble at her touch
Cause I'm loving you too much
Cause I'm loving you too much
Cause I'm loving you too much
And I tenderly touch you
But now I float away
To my hideaway
I was sick to death
With that long agony
I was permittet to sit
When she unbound me
Byrd: Who Made Thee, Hob, Forsake the Plough?
de John Farmer
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