Waddayamean?

I let you fry my bacon.
I let you bake my beans.
I let you cook my cornbread,
and wash my old blue jeans
in that brand new Kenmore washer
you got in ’93
as a sign of my affection
on our anniversary.

Waddayamean you want to leave?
I let you groom my pony.
Now, suddenly you’re all upset
and wantin’ alimony.
I let you drive the pick up
when you get the feed and such.
And I kept clear out of your way
when you replaced the clutch.

So, whaddayamean you don’t feel loved
and you’re just a hired hand?
Didn’t you say for better or worse
when the ring went on your hand?
And darlin’ you’ve had better than most.
I don’t know what you’re thinkin’.
Aren’t I here to remind you
of things to be done
and don’t I come home after drinkin’?

Whaddayamean we never talk?
You hardly say a peep.
Last night I tried to talk to you
and you just fell asleep.
It looks as though your mind’s made up
though I don’t know why you’re peeved.
But there’s one thing I’d like to ask
Can you clean out the barn ‘fore you leave?

Jeff Hildebrandt © 1999