She can draw a pretty picture,
She'll draw it with a twist

Her paintbrush is a razor,
Her canvas is her wrist

She paints her pretty picture,
In a color that's blood red

While using her sharp paintbrush,
She finally ends up dead

Her pretty pictures fading,
Quite slowly on her arm

Bloods not racing through her,
She no longer can do harm

She painted her pretty picture,
But her story had a twist

You see her mind was her razor,
And her heart was her wrist