When I say I'm sorry, it means I'm a coward to say what I've done,
Someone as strong as you should pity the weak fool,
But you don't.
Someone with the wit of yours should stop answering, just shut the door,
But you don't.
Why, do you bother?
With the squeaky, rusty tool?
Many others border it, their gleaming glows, the branding mitt,
So why do you bother?
Why, why, why do you bother?
The squeaky tool, the rusted one, put it back, its days are done,
Don't even bother,
But you've grown attached to it,
Its squeakiness,
Its ambience,
'Don't try to fix it',
But one like you, does not give up,
To be told she doesn't care enough,
That's why you bother.
But the strongest ones still have a breaking point, their shiny tips,
And the rusty points,
Thats why she bothers.
What is there left to fix? With the shiny tools and the branding mitts?
Whats left to lose?
Shes not one to break a tool, gaining reach on the stepping stool.
And yet she bothers.
To clean up when the kids are done, do they care, is she the only one?
Who's left to save me?
Sweaty hands work the rusty tool,
Its cowardliness, such a fool.
Why does she save me?
The rusty tool chants out her name, its squeakiness is most to blame,
'Please know I'm sorry'
Shes heard this one times before, from the living room to the creaking door.
Its why she bothers.
Why she bothers, with a tool like me.
