I never see you cooking up supper when I'm home at night.
I never seem to find a bite.
Hmm-hmm-hmm-hmm.

I only see a cluttered mess, tasks you skip while reading romance.
No cooking with a griddle or pans,
livin' in a trance.

And you always seem to get me swearing,
as you lie there in your bed,
don't mollify my appetite.

The lady's in bed.
I glance in and see,
sneak a peek.
There's no bloody beer,
no nuts, stew or meat,
no fare I'd wanna eat.
And I harbor woe,
just stewing at my bride.
I'll never get fed.
She fails to cook at night.

I never see you turning some morsels into pure delight.
I never see you slice or dice,
you are so lazy.

I never see you canning peaches, chopping leeks or frying rice.
No hen you stir, no beef you spice,
the nook's in disarray.

And I have never had such dry-heaving,
just believing I must feast on buttered grubs
and some skewered mice.

A-craving some bread,
with fancy cuisine,
treats to eat.
There's no bloody cheer.
I just fume and scream,
and swear I'm gonna leave.
But you start to snore,
you're snoozing as I gibe.
I fully regret
I chose you for my bride.

I never will get fed.
I'm crazed and shook, uptight.

A-craving some bread,
I'm crazed and unfed.
My lady brings dread.
The lady's in bed.

(I'm hungry.)