The Glass House

They talk, chat ****, they whisper The things about my life They really do not know my woes My troubles and my strife It boils down to assumption About things they think they know Of how I came to be this way Distrusting, empty, hollow Of course I stand my corner I put on my game face I refuse to even let it show I will not loose this race Let them all keep talking About things they think they know While they stand there chatting **** I give them all a show. It’s worthy of an Oscar Their rumours, quite untrue Whilst you speculate on my life The reflection is on you.