She paints a pretty picture
But this picture has a twist
The paintbrush is a razor
And the canvas is her wrist
She paints a lovely picture
With a colour that's blood red
While using her sharp paintbrush
She ends up finally dead
And her pretty pictures fading
Quite slowly on her arm
The blood is not racing through her
She can no longer do harm
She painted her pretty picture
But you see her picture had a twist
Her mind was her razor
And her heart was her wrist
