To your knees with this daily passion
|
you don't feel anything.
|
You couldn't race a knife across him.
|
Would you dare ask anyone to?
|
Take away all the blame,
|
what if you aren't responsible?
|
Would it ease this life a little
|
to see him buried instead?
|
|
The sweat off your back now sticks to the carpet.
|
As he pulls himself out from the press.
|
You couldn't ask for a better father,
|
the words once expressed from your mouth.
|
Now eat them away, or take to the grave.
|
You're a pretty girl, honey.
|
If he would just die then I might be happy, Mother?
|
|
So count to sleep, my dearest Martha.
|
You know you should, but you won't leave Arthur.
|
Would it not be for you, then please for the children?
|
Cause if you won't they will, if you won't they will.
|
Maybe for them, maybe them.
|
|
This is the last time, you'll say in the shower.
|
As your blood curves a path when mixed with the water,
|
I'll do it myself so it's done.
|
To the right of all ways I will bury his grave.
|
I'm a pretty girl, funny
|
Out from the woods a light burns in shadow,
|
unnoticed to a girl with a gun.
|
|
-----------------
|
Our Darling Daughter You Are, Little Cecilia Marie
|
| The Prize Fighter Inferno |
