She's going to cut you down. She's going to to turn you out.
She's going to make you wish you never seen her face before.
She's going to break you down. She's going to put you out.
She's going to make an example out of you and your sorry skin
You're dead already.
Dead as a doornail. I am singing to the dead.
You're trying to bring the right one home. But you'll end up with a hole in your head.
She breathes fire, She sweats tar.
Although she's a looker, that's just the surface and that's all she wants you to know.
She'll have you running up and down the street asking advice from friends, neighbors and family.
Water filled veins and stone cold heart she's the medusa of your deep blue need.
So don't start crying, saying you don't know what you know.
She'll cut your throat before you could even wish wish wish yourself home.
Her business card reads:
"Put my name atop the list of those who can love you all away. Sweet G.B."
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