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 notice youI might not be a man yet,
but that bastard will never be,
so I'm cleaning my Weatherby
I sight in 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.
