The Pitiful Boy
The poor pitiful boy
The one who thinks he can always get his way
Poor pitiful boy
Who thinks crying is the answer
When you disregard what I’m saying
The poor pitiful boy
Who thinks he can walk all over me
Poor boy
You do not realize the fire in my belly
And the blade on my tongue
I was not made to be put out
And I sure as hell
Was not made for my words to be easy to swallow
You poor thing
You think you’re hurting me
But in the end, you're hurting your own pitiful heart
It will be hard at the start
Getting used to not feeling my touch
But there will come the day when that pitiful heart breaks
And you come running back to your first-aid
Though I’ll no longer be there
Waiting with needle and thread in hand
I will be growing
Fixing myself from the damage you caused
I’m as delicate as a rose
But my thorns will touch you before the petals
Because at the end of the day
My guard will be high
And the Poor Pitiful boy
Will be on the ground, shattered again
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