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 
[blazing solo] 
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 
[repeat ad nauseam]