I'm No Saintly Sacrifice

I could make all your meals and sort you out a hearty beef broth I could do all your laundry and even learn to darn your damn socks I could tirelessly see to all your needs and tidy up your every filthy mess but I'd rather stab myself in the eye then wash another cup or dish… But making your bed for me was once a labour of love. And nothing was ever too much. 'But who will look after me? ' Now, nothing I do is ever enough. 'Nobody sees me; I'm only the hands, the hands that sow, cook, and iron. The hands that cleaned scrimped and saved.' To keep a roof over your head. The house you'll no doubt sell when I'm dead, I guess I'll no longer matter. 'But did I ever, but did I ever? ' My hands are like cracked old leather tired of tidying, tired of laundry I'm tired of you; my entire life's been an existence.