Music: All Them Witches – Dying Surfer Meets His Maker
Taken loosely from the idea of a lyrical essay
The boy doesn’t love you.
And why should he?
Don’t “please mister” me …
You’re the culprit here. Look at those hands, doused in red.
Disgust! That’s what I feel when I look at you.
The truth deserved better.
Better than being dragged by your breathless frame,
Heaving from the act,
Down the drain.
I’ll ask you again.
When no was the answer …
Why didn’t you just give in?