Not Mine. She paints a pretty picture But her story has a twist Her paintbrush is a razor And her canvas is her wrist She paints her pretty picture In a color that's blood red While using her sharp paintbrush She ends up finally dead Her pretty pictures 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 he picture had a twist You see her mind was the razor And her heart was just her wrist.
Respect!
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