To your knees, this daily passion,
You don't feel anything,
You couldn't raise the knife across him,
But would you dare ask anyone to,
Take away all the blame?

What if you, aren't responsible?
Would it ease this life a little,
To see him buried instead?

The sweat of your back, now sticks to the carpet,
As he moves himself out from the press,
You couldn't ask for a better father,
The words once expressed from your mouth.

Now eat them away, or take to the grave,
You're a pretty girl honey,
If he would just die, then I might be happy, mother.

So count to sleep, my dearest Martha,
You know you should, but you won't leave Arthur,
Would it not be for you, then please for the children,
Cos if you won't they will, if you won't they will.
And maybe for them, maybe them.

This is the last, you'll say in the shower,
As your blood curves a path, when mixed with the water,
I'll do it myself so it's done,
To the right of all ways, I will bury his grave,
I'm a pretty girl, funny.
Out from the woods a light burns in shadow,
A notice to a girl with a gun.

So count to sleep, my dearest Martha,
You know you should, but you won't leave Arthur,
Would it not be for you, then please for the children,
Cos if you won't they will, if you won't they will.
And maybe for them, maybe them.

See also:
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