I can't say I don't want a drink when I think of you
because already I am itching for a shot, or two.
I can't hear your name without turning a red hue;
my fists ball in anger with the mentioning, too.

How could you do the things that you did to me?
How could I have let those things come to be?
Now every day I am haunted by your evil memory,
remembering over again, your fists coming at me.

My hands are shaking; I need to take these shots,
tequila to the brain is how I stop the thoughts.
I wish I had done something so you got caught,
but a lack of courage means I never fought.

If I could **** one person in this great big land
and not get in trouble for having had it planned,
without a second thought, you'd be under my hand,
and when I'm done with you, you would not stand.

No one should be allowed to do what you've done,
and laugh about it, like it was the most fun.
You made me scared, so all I did eventually, was run,
which leaves you out there, free, so basically, you won.

I am empathetic beyond reason, because I felt for you,
understanding rage was a disease that controlled you.
I wanted to help, to save and redeem your soul, too,
but you aren't just sick with rage, you enjoy it; it's true.

I may have ****** up and not reported your ***,
and drive myself to drink to forget this past,
but let it be known, I'm normally as still as glass,
but if I ever see you again, that moment will be your last.