the blues

Now I sing the oldest song:
my man done treat me wrong.
Where's the one to treat me right,
who won't drink or cheat or fight?
My man done treat me wrong,
owes me money and leads me along,
squeezed my heart until it bled.

But you bought me milk and bread,
you spent weeks writing me a song
that I listened to as I lay in bed.
We stayed up and talked all night,
now I don't know where you belong.
You held me close, you held me tight,
when we pitched headfirst off a sled.