She paints a pretty picture
But the story has a twist ,
Her paint brush I a razor
And her canvas is is her wrist ,
She paints her pretty picture
That's blood red
While using her sharp pain brush
She ends up finally dead
Her pretty pictures fading
Quite slowly on her arm
The blood is not racing
Throw her
She can no longer do
harm
She painted her pretty picture
But her picture had a twist
You see her mind was her razor
And her heart was her wrist.
