Oh, mint leaves on a garnished drink,
a cocktail chained to the kitchen sink.
The wife has come to lose her name,
to a love played out like a guessing game.

She cleans his feet, his footprints too,
before taking to the avenue,
She is off to buy him a richer style,
to empty his pockets, to make him smile.

The wife sweats beneath the ceiling fan,
against the glass and the upward soles of man.
In the dark she dresses, to meet his needs,
she'll plant his crops, and then destroy his weeds.

She'll caress his temples in the night,
tend to her boxer after his big fight.
He'll thank her with a sharp right hook,
he'll lay down the law, he'll throw down the book.

The wife, she bends down to his will,
to his livelihood paying the heating bill.
She'll pay for all the debts that he acquired,
for an autonomy of will, now left expired.

Yet, as she stares at her mortal frame,
in her lonesome bed, she comes to dream again.
Oh, for all of the passion that has come to be tame,
she has finally stood; she remembers her name.