“He paints a picture, but the story has a twist, his paint brush is a razor And his canvas is his whirst, he paints his picture in a color thats blood red While using his sharp paint pain brush He ends up finally dead His pictures fading. Quite slowly on his arms. The blood is not rasing through him. He can no longer do any harm. He painted his picture, but the picture had a twist,you see his mind was the razor and his heart was his wrist.”
