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