Once I got this fancy job

I can't lie, I got fat

Once you get a backyard to maintain

It gets hard to go back

I try to pull the pain from the most mundane of places,

but it all feels weak:

a wrinkle on my face,

a cold sore in the cheek



But if you stack the world on my back,

if you squeeze the eyes from my head

I'll still make those diamonds, diamonds, diamonds,

Diamonds 'til I'm dead



Call it what you will:

a changing of the tune,

a pepper in the mill,

a salting of the wound



So now it takes a week to write a song about writer's block,

and all I do is watch the clock



But if you take the soup from my bowl,

ya, if you take the love from my bed,

if you take the hope from my soul

Well I'll still give you diamonds, diamonds,

Diamonds 'til I'm dead

Diamonds 'til I'm dead

I still make those diamonds, diamonds, diamonds,

Diamonds 'til I'm dead



Is it wrong that there's nothing wrong?

Without conflict, is it still a song?



Should I take the money and stand still?

Should I trade the wind for the trees?

Or can I bear the weight with my will?

Can I break the world on my knees?



All for those diamonds, diamonds, diamonds,

Diamonds 'til I'm dead



I still make those diamonds, diamonds, diamonds,

Diamonds 'til I'm dead



I make those diamonds, diamonds, diamonds,

Diamonds till im dead



I still make those diamonds, diamonds, diamonds,

Diamonds till im dead