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Writes me in, from my poison well to the poison pen lyingPaper thin, just a novelty, a walking simile smiling'cause chapter one was the beginning of the end, in a race he couldn't winFor a prize he never knew how to loveSticks and stones are only good for breaking bones and they're awful hard to throw with your head in the sand.Words are his skill as he moves in for the kill and leaves me skewered on his quill in a short handHe's not a lover or a fighter, he's the writer(x2).He pulls the strings of everybody's heart down his story arc slidingThe play's the thing, when everything that's real falls short of his idealizingWell he's settled his vendetta. In a way, and it jumped right off the pageBound despite the lack of a spineSticks and stones are only good for breaking bones and they're awful hard to throw with your head in the sandWords are his skill as he moves in for the kill and leaves me skewered on his quill in a short handCrossing "T"s and dotting ire, he's the writer (x2)Sticks and stones are only good for breaking bones and they're awful hard to throw with your head in the sand.Words are his skill as he moves in for the kill and leaves me skewered on his quill in a short handIf I'm a thief then he's a liar, he's the writer(x2) Aus Songtexte Mania