She paints a pretty picture.
But her story has a twist,
Her paint brush is a razor.
And her canvas is her wrist.
She paints a pretty picture,
In a colour of blood red
While she's using her sharp paint brush
She ends up finally dead..
Her pretty picture is fading
Quite slowly on her arm
The blood is not racing through her
She can no longer do harm
She painted a pretty picture
But her story had a twist
You see her mind was a razor
And her heart was her wrist
