I've grown accustomed to her face.
She almost makes the day begin.
I've grown accustomed to the tun e,
she whistles night and noon,
her smiles, her frowns, her up s,
are second nature to me now,
like breathing out and breathing
I was serenely independent
and content before we met,
I've grown accustomed to her looks,
wicked, brainless thing to do.
She'll regret it. She'll regret it.
It's doomed before they even take the vow.
Mrs. Freddie Eynesford Hill,
in a wretched little flat above a stall.
I can see her now, not a penny in the till
and a bill collector beating at
She'll try to teach the things I taught her,
and en d up selling flowers instead.
Begging for her bread and water,
while her husband has his breakfast in bed.
Ha! In a year or so, when
cheek has turned to chalk,
she'll come home and lo, he'll
with a social climbing heir
or hurl her to the walls?
or the treatment she deserves?
or throw the baggage out.
I'm a most forgiving man,
the sort who never could, never would,
and staunchly never budge.
Just a most forgiving man.
If she were crawling on her knees,
let her shiver, let her moan,
and let the Hellcat freeze.
But I'm so used to hear her say,
Her joys, her woes, her highs, her lows,
are second nature to me now.
Like breathing out, breathing in.
I'm very grateful she's a woman,
Rather like a habit one can always break.
I've grown accustomed to the trace
4.8
