She paints a pretty picture
But the story has a twist
Her paint brush is a razor
And her canvas a wrist
She paints a pretty picture
In a color as blood red
While using her sharp paintbrush
She finally ends up dead
Her pretty pictures fading
Quite slowly on her arm
The bloods not racing through
She can no longer do harm
She painted her pretty picture
But her picture had a twist
Her mind was the razor
And her heart as the wrist
