Mine’s the story of a man,

Who I’ll never trust again.

Never, girl believe in trust,

It sits and weeps and slowly rusts.

It leaves you feeling gray and old,

Creeping through like rotting mold.

Sick from one, she’s ill to all,

Crumpled passions where she falls.  

Empty corpse, she loves no more,

To common mind, she’s just a whore.

Spreading filth between her legs,

Like the sickness that she begs.

To bring her to a silent end,

Far from heartache she can’t mend.

But for now she sits and waits,

And stays inside her hollow grave.