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You put your hands upon it |
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But it only ever squirms |
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You're staring in the mirror |
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And you're counting every germ |
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I'm not surprised she left you |
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That she found the nerve to tell |
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The thing you claim to love so much |
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You don't do very well |
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I'm sure someone will love you |
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'Til the day that they must die |
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And someone will mourn for you |
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With bitter, tear-stained eyes |
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Will this be enough for you? |
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You got them in your spell |
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Because the thing you claim to hate |
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You do it very well |
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Was it written in the stars |
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Or in your mother's gut |
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Will you be as pure as snow |
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Or just some angry mutt? |
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The price of it has just gone down |
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And you did not think to sell |
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But in doing all these hateful things |
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You are unparallel |
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At doing all these hurtful things |
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You really do excel |
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The truthfulness must leave the room |
|
If I ever wish you well |
