What could she say to you, what?
That she sits at home drinking
herself into a stupour,
thinking of all the things wrong with her past?

And of all the things he did and
she did and never did,
overanalysing what is
now lost?

Could she sit there and talk to you,
massage and leave with you,
climbing that mountain
so high?

And pretend to be someone else,
a confident beauty or else
show you her lost face
and cry?

Her scars are all thats left,
to cover with sleeves and then
lie about and fabricate 
her excuse.

Would she let you in to that
place deep inside where
she perpetually tightens
the noose?

What right do you have to 
be so sure of yourself that
through arrogance and charm
she'd be yours?

Just leave her in peace to
be lost and escape if
she needs to cower behind
bloody doors.

To Ol' Bill; at least I can hide mine, and I don't have the
arrogance to use my integrity the same way you use your bank
account. I ain't, and never will be, a notch on your
bedpost.