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.
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