Your eyes try to tell me he treated you poor.
Those men in the factories love nothing at all.
Your sorrows confess that you loved him the best.
But that don’t make sense.
Means I ain’t got a chance
to love you at all.
Now I’ve had my troubles, and I’ve had my trials.
Been lonely and ugly for many a while.
But deep in my soul I been purer than gold.
Oh why can’t you see
all the promise in me
’stead of nothing at all?
Your hands always tremble; my words always fail.
Our hopes are our prisons, our lovers our jails.
I ask you to dance, but you stare at your hands.
And that don’t make sense.
Means we ain’t got a chance
for nothing at all.