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 redWhile she's using her sharp paint brush
She ends up finally dead..
Her pretty picture is fadingQuite slowly on her arm
The blood is not racing through her
She can no longer do harmShe painted a pretty picture
But her story had a twistYou see her mind was a razor
And her heart was her wrist