I could give you a dozen, fresh cut, pink, or red, or white.
I wonder if they knew what they would grow to become.
You’ll have to cut it down and burn me into splinters, or I’ll unwrap the string that was me around your finger.
And I’ll hang you in your bedroom burial ground.
There is a taste for blood, and it’s something deep inside
I don’t ever want god to hear our screams and mistake them for prayers.
And you know I’m loaded, but not which chamber; touch me and I’ll go.
Click click click click click
I could give you a dozen, fresh cut, pink, or red, or white. I wonder if they knew what they would grow to become.
You’ll have to cut it down and burn me into splinters, or I’ll unwrap the string that was me around your finger. And I’ll hang you in your bedroom burial ground. There is a taste for blood, and it’s something deep inside
I don’t ever want god to hear our screams and mistake them for prayers. And you know I’m loaded, but not which chamber; touch me and I’ll go. Click click click click click
I’m born villain, don’t pretend to be a victim.