It's.
A trap,
the little lady
sings sweet cyanide songs.
Drawing lost lambs softly, quietly.
To slaughter them. Quite rightly.
Their names'll be forgotten anyway.
It's.
A trap,
the little lady
sings sweet cyanide songs.
Drawing lost lambs softly, quietly.
To slaughter them. Quite rightly.
Their names'll be forgotten anyway.
