willows in the window soaked in light
little locks on cabinet doors
when he keeps the spirits anything but tight
well she never does her chores, her chores
oh she never does her chores
sing away the sadness in a field of rye
fall beneath a big tree's shade
slipping off and dreaming of another life
hurry up and tie your braids, braids
hurry up and tie your braids
feathers in the shortening rolled out flour
fixing up a blackbird pie
if she ever left him he could track her down
four and twenty blackbirds fly by
four and twenty blackbirds fly
the king is in the backroom, sharpening knives
adding up the things he owns
for everything he's got he paid the right price
she was never bought and sold, sold
she was never bought or sold
pinning up the linen for the last time
pretty posies stand in rows
if the grass is greener it'll prove her right
pull the picket front gate closed, closed
pull the picket front gate closed