You broke my heart last night
when we had our forty-seventh fight
Forty-six was bad enough
but then you brought up
all this other stuff

Like how I’m never listening
You’ve really got me bristling
My broken heart is blistlering

We patched it up today
in a partial sort of way
but I’m fraying at the hems
cos it’s hard to start again, again

Because I forgot to remember how to forget
now my broken heart’s a mess
And I don’t know quite how
but I’m saying “Yes”

You know you’ve got me stitched
and you know I love that kitsch
but I feel like I could sink
if you really paint the kitchen pink

This house is not a football pitch
and if you win, you won’t get rich
So I’ll admit defeat
if you’ll agree to turn down the heat