I'm not the one with the reloaded gun pointed at my chest.
Step down and listen to mother because she might know best.
Disobedient, he goes ahead and pulls the trigger anyway.
And now poor old mother is alone and mourns every day.

Now the blood trickles on to the carpet;
Stains it with the colour of pretty roses
But now roses aren't red for me.

I'm not the one with the kitchen knife slicing at my wrist.
This cut just adds yet another self-injury to the list.
Enervated, she scratches away and tries to finish off the job.
So now the last sound the bathtub will hear is her sob.

Now the blood spills in to the water;
Dyes it with the colour of lovely roses
But now roses aren't red for me.

At the funeral contains
Their corpses, rearrange
the roses on their coffins -
so dark, so dark.

Now the blood pours in to the memories;
Tints it with the colour of death.
So give the dead their roses,
But those roses aren't red for me.