Plague ​​wych elm

[Verse]
I grew up as a peasant
In 17th century France
I’m not as diseased or quite as weak
As you think I am
Damp itchy skin
Putting oil in my lamp
Sneaking out to find
My old man

[Chorus]
My ribs feel tough and I feel rough
I think I have the plague
I feel worse and worse every day
I think I have the plague

[Post-Chorus]
My feet are swollen
Fingers numb
Sweaty skin
Heavy lungs
My arms ache
And I feel the weight
Of my womanhood
Of my fate