The sound of the wet stone against the straight razors edge,
The rhythmic sound it makes as it grinds the narrow blade,
It's like a song what the cries to be heard yet no hears,
I hear it every night I hear it,
Mabey because that's because I'm the one playing it I don't know,

But I hear it and feel it,
The slow first cut the one with all the pressure,
The skin opens and the red crimson blood spills over the edges,
The ecstasy,
The thrill,
It's unbelievable,
So I do it agin and again,
I forget why I started,
I forget the reason,
But all that matters now is the feeling,
Pure as light it's self,

I play that song and relalise,
That the first cut is always the deepest.