If I Were To Help You

A hobby army with forces to unite
Does get something done...
That is your occupation, perhaps in days last light
But my workload seems to destroy me in plight
For the days are too hot for me
Yet you'd work me more
The nights too long for your longing yore
And when day is done we, me and you, have little fun
That is, little fishing, little camping, and little alone time
Not to say I'm your wife, but I am your son

Tomorrow you promise, tomorrow seems to be your graveyard anymore...
When it does come.
  Tomorrow we did do, too, but tomorrow I seem to have to forget first
  When promise comes through.

Little joy I have, but a great many comforts
Like privacy but soon I'll exchange it for pleasure
As everything seems to be given over to stolen leisure
"Why inspire confidence if we're to leave him sodden graves"
In that case do less, earn less, and leave memories of love.
For your time is invested poorly as it stands now
Leaving me with memories of spitting in shadows at my soul
Let it not be said I have no memory of your hard work,
But all work and no play breaks trust on Saturday or Sunday or Monday or Tuesday or Wednesday or Thursday or Friday or "Every Saturday"

Little time for me in all your time leaves me leaving you playing fool, again.