A hundred times I have been told,
“A singer’s heart is always cold;”
That true or not,
 I want a life that is my own;
I will not let you leave me home alone.

The girls who pay to hear you sing
Have never seen your wedding ring;
That’s why the end may be in view;
I’m not a slave who has to cook for you.

I will not say, time and again,
“You should be home from six to ten;”
I’d rather let a judge define
The space between your dreams and mine.

 I thought, when they were throwing rice,
That we would live in paradise;
But, if you just told me a lie,
Perhaps we should let all the strings untie.