I can barely make out a little light from the house on the cul-de-sac bedroom upstairs, it’s a family affair.
I’ve watched you in class, your eyes are cut glass and you stay covered up, head to your toe, so nobody will know it was you
I might not be a man yet, but that bastard will never be, so I’m cleaning my Weatherby My sight and my scope and I hope against hope. I hope against hope.
Your mother seems nice, I don’t understand why she won’t say anything. As if she can’t see who he turned out to be.
I might not be a man yet, but your father will never be. so I load up my Weatherby, and I let out my breath, and I couple with death. I couple with death.
Saw your father last night, and in the window the light made a silhouette. Saw him hold you that way, he won’t hold you that way anymore, Yvette.