I sit on top of a gravestone,
Humming merrily.
I hold a thorny rose as I sing,
Picking petals off as I swing
My legs back and forth,
My polka-dot stockings stark
Against the grim dead landscape of you.
Oh you, you, you
Little pathetic you.
I laugh manically as I remember you.
You were a master of lies,
Weaving your playground tricks between
The desks in that cold English classroom.
Tricks that made people gasp,
Go,
"No!"
Pity you for things that never happened.
When people grab my toy,
I intend to break theirs. My mother says
It's a terrible habit.
I shrug and giggle as I smash your doll head
Against the splattered easel.
You, you, you
Said it was all my fault!
"She started it," I point my finger at you.
There's nothing you can do.
I'm no master of lies. I don't tell nothing
But the truth.
You, you, you,
Went to some kind of doctor
Was diagnosed with some kind of illness
Don't look at me, you bitch.
Never would've started
If it weren't for you.
On that fateful day, I wore yellow
I don't even like the colour.
My mother places a bow on my head,
I reach for my new shiny doll,
Placed a thorny rose in its hair.
And now I pluck the petals off,
Singing, "You, you, you
"Little pathetic you,
"Who thought you could outsmart me
"With the lies you plant and the viciousness you hide poorly.
"You, you, you
"Thought I was being kind.
"Thought that I could be played
"Few people know, oh little lady,
"I can be mean when I want to be."
