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A mother of three |
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A woman buried somewhere underneath |
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Sings a sad lullaby forever burned inside their minds |
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Her nights are diseased another one full of whiskey |
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And men |
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To uphold her complacency |
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As she's down on her praying hands and crying out |
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With her key in hands she opens where her real nigth |
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Begins |
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Who could have known that he had pushed the pain this |
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Far |
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With a gun and venom in his veins he screamed, "try |
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Your best" |
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Save her kids, give her life; rip open his wrongs that |
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Will never be set right |
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As she's down on her praying hands and knees crying |
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Out |
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Her daughter pleads, "daddy don't" |
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With an itchy trigger |
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He focused on her instead, straight to her head |
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Shooting straight to her heart |
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How will this horror end |
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Face down she holds her head |
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If she had to relive this could she do it again |
