I'm sick of shaking hands
I'm feeling all too withered
I can't count the ways
That we've become untethered
I can limp right back
I'll put things back together

If you're gone, it's alright
There are roses on the vine
And I was made to march on
'Til the end of me

I'll blow away your tears
And suffer for your pleasure
I've been tossed around before
And lost, just like a feather
And I will limp right back
And put things back together

If you're gone, it's alright
There are roses on the vine
And I was made to march on
'Til the end of me

Through sickness and in health
These friends I know so well
Pain, blame
Means to satisfy
Through sickness and in health
These friends I know so well
Pain, blame
Means to satisfy

I'm sick of shaking hands
I'm feeling all too withered
I can't count the ways
That we've become untethered
But I can limp right back
And I'll put things back together

If you're gone, it's alright
There are roses on the vine
And I was made to march on
Until the end of me