knives and orange juice.Cut as clean as a sheet of paper,No stain of blood or orange juice,Knife as easy to use as scissors,But scissors are made only to cut,Yet my knife can pierce the skin,By day it's all crayons and coloured paper,By night I draw the blood of the cat,Under the stairs is where it'll stay,Along with my scythe and cherry red blood,Standing by the apple tree,As I watch the body swing on a rope,After the murder I'll sit in my room,Under the stairs quivering in shame,As the doorbell rings,They're waiting outside,They want me...
send me a note if you have any suggestions.