Author's Note:
I suppose I should have said this in the first chapter. I am
a starving artist, also known as a muscian, and poet. All the songs featured in this
story are written by me. I wish I could get the rest of the band off their
lazy asses and help me write some new ones, though. I seriously think the guys hang
around my house just to eat all my food; that or try and drive me to suicide
(titters insanely.)
I am trying to insert at least one song in each chapter. In the first chapter,
the song is called, Please, Say You'll Wait For Me. In the second chapter, it is
called, You Don't Know It. Well, for those of you who don't like the lyrics - I am
what I am, and no one can change that - not even bad reviews.
Thank you, to all of those who have reviewed, and to
Grace Manning sat on Eli Sammler's bed; alone, and very frustrated.
Though his room was always cluttered, and very messy - it was more so at the
moment. A spiral notebook lay in front of her, while ripped, balled up pages
were strewn about. It looked as if it had snowed recycled paper. Suddenly,
she felt the urge to make a snow angels amongst the balls of paper, and dirty
clothes. So, she opted for turning her guitar on it's front, then proceeded
to bang her head continuously.
Grace found that the dull thud let out her frustation due to writer's
block. She had written one song, and everyone told her it was good. One song,
she thought, angrily, that's all I got - I need more. A pleather bound book was
off to her left, holding all her poems, sonnets, and odes - even prose was
scattered through the worn pages. And, after studying all of her writings,
she could not figure out how to make them into music.
For her, the melody was simple to think of. It depended on the poem,
really: if it was a lamentful poem, then it would be a slow song; if an outraged,
or angry poem, it would be fast. That was the only simple part of turning a poem
into a song. Sighing heavily, Grace ceased trying beat some inspiration into her
mind. She leaned on the cool surface of her guitar, breathing in the musty scent
that littered Eli's room. There were traces of the Irish Spring soap scent,
dabbed with a tiny bit of pot, then cigarettes. She thought it odd how he never
wore cologne, yet his soap seemed to substitute for it.
What was even more odd, was that he smoked - mostly cigarettes now -
but the smell never seemed to linger long enough to disgust her. Laughing,
she told herself she must be some kind of freak for pondering Eli's scents,
rather than working on her song. The spiral notebook was laughing at her
right now, she decided. It seemed that everything was doing that now a days.
With a feeling of utter despair at only having some of the new song she was
working on, she went back to bashing her forehead against her vintage guitar.
Without warning, the garage door swung open, but Grace continued a
rhythmic thud anyway. The sound of the door shutting did not come to her
ears. Eli smirked as he stood near the doorway: she was very amusing after
what he had been through today. He shook his head, silently making his way
over to her. Swiftly, he stuck his hand between her head and guitar, stopping
her belittling of herself.
Grace might have been startled normally. But, she was used to having
people just show up unexpectantly. Ever since a few days ago, she felt like
she got no time to herself. Over the past few days, Eli, Wink, Coop, or Ted
had barged in to her bedroom, ranting about this or that. She was happy her
door had a lock on it. When the rest of the band was not inhaling the food
at the Manning/Sammler house, she snuck away to the garage. Then, she was
glad that Eli was working most of those times.
If it's not the guys bugging the hell out me, she cursed, it's Zoe
- I can tolerate Jessie most of the time, because she does not jump up and
down when telling me something. Each of the guys had their own signature
complaint, that they felt that they had to share with Grace. Almost instantly
she became their seragant Mother, and little Sister all at once.
Coop had a problem with girls, Grace had surmised. Not that he did
not have numerous girlfriends, to which Grace scourned, and thought less of
him. It was that he could not talk to them, in the sense that every word that
came out of his mouth was something piggish, shovanistic, or just plain crude.
But, Grace did not blame him: he was raised by his Father, and had four
Brothers. And, he had absolutely no intuition, simply he lacked common sense.
Ted was the pessimist, as well as the strategist. While the others
opted for acting in the heat of the moment, he thought about what came after.
Grace admired him for this fact, thinking that he would make a nice boyfriend.
Ted, like Eli saw nothing in his own future, and he now worked along side of
Eli at Booklovers. With being labeled the emotional one, he allowed himself
to get walked over - a lot. So, Grace took it upon herself to make him take
a stand . . .
Which leads to Wink, Grace thought, allowing an amused grin to
grow upon her face. He was not exactly the easiest person to get along
with, nor was he the most interesting. Yet, Grace liked him for some
unfathomable reason: he was funny, excentric, and he had a nice ass, too.
But, he seemed so simple minded to her. There were three things that were
always on Wink's mind: food, sex, and music. Then, there was self-centeredness.
She found that he never did anything really kind, unless there was something in
it for him. And, to Grace's astoundment, he has a softer side: he revealed
that he could not stand to see a girl cry. Wow, she had thought, and could
not speak to him for hours.
"Do that enough, and you might actually get a brain," teased Eli.
Pulling off his work shirt, he plopped on his bed, causing
rippling effects to overcome Grace. It was frightening, she thought.
If two weeks ago she had seen Eli shirtless, she would have blushed
ferociously, and would have run the opposite direction. Now, here he was -
his foot currently poking her in the back. She slapped his leg away, pulling
her pleather book out from under his knees.
"Ass," Grace proclaimed.
"You know you love it,"
Being the ever mature girl that she was, Grace calmly turned
her head to stick her tongue out at him. This only served for him to
smirk, then flip her off. Shaking her head, she started mulling over
her writings. Grace threw the book down to floor, uttering a small
stream of curses.
"You kiss your Mother with that mouth?"
"That's a little bit of the pot calling the kettle black,"
"Touche. Let me hear what you've got,"
"Not 'til it's finished,"
"Oh, for fuck's sake . . . Just play it all ready!" Eli sat up,
glaring at her slightly.
"Bad day?"
"You have no fucking idea,"
Eli crawled over toward Grace on his stomach. He laid his head
on her legs, waiting for her to play something. In truth, he had come
to enjoy hearing her musings. There was something in her words - sorrow -
longing - need? Eli gave up trying to figure out Grace; he simply wanted to
hear her voice. Grace strummed her guitar a bit, then began a fast sort of
tune, which grabbed his attention immediately . . .
" Play with fire and you're gonna' get wet:
I have a strong will, and I'm gonna' stay set
Play with water and you're gonna get burned:
I may be young, but I've already learned . . .
But, then I look at you with your spiked brown hair,
Hazel-Green eyes,
And the scowl you wear . . .
And, you don't know it, but you'll be my demise - my demise, and
yeah, you don't know it."
She continued to play the music, and pondered over words. Eli,
absent-mindedly tapped his fingers to the beat. It was good, and different
from her first song - a mixture of alternative and rock, and something he
could not quite detect. Suddenly, she stooped and placed her guitar on the
floor. Eli moved his head to her lap, and she instinctively started to play
with his hair.
"It's so hard to transfer poetry to song. But, not becauses poetry isn't
music, it's the . . . "
"The chorus," he finished for her, eyes closed.
"Yeah . . . I don't see how anyone does this for a living. Probably a
hell of a lot better writers than me - probably better inspiration, too,"
"Where did you used to get it from, huh?" Eli opened his eyes, catching
her gaze.
"Oh," Grace swallowed, finding her mouth to suddenly be dry, "people -
certain people."
Grace smiled, and Eli shut his eyes once more. She could tell
instantly that he was exhausted, and she pondered of just leaving him to
get some rest. Grace stirred slightly, but was surprised when he grabbed
her waist.
"Mmm," he mumbled, "stay."
"Oh, yeah, that's easy for you to say. You get to use my thighs a plush
pillow, and I get left with a big sitting up fuck you. Well, I'll have
you know, Eli, I am not a god-damned . . . "
Swiftly, Eli sat up, turned and pulled them toward his pillows.
He laid on his stomach, pushing her to his side. It left her flat on her
back, with his right arm draped around her mid-drift. Grace barely realized
what had happped. She was in the middle of starting a big lecture. Damn,
she cursed Eli Sammler, I was going to let him have it - whatever it is.
"I'm not staying in your . . ."
Eli clamped his hand over her mouth, and left there for a few moments.
"Shut up, Grace," he said into his pillow, "you talk too damn much."
Grace scoffed, and closed her eyes. She felt Eli move, then
darkness washed over them. When she felt his lithe body next to her,
she froze momentarily. Her life flashed before her eyes, when thinking
what her Mother would say if she caught them in this situation. Then,
Eli pulled her to rest on his chest. Maybe she should have been a bit
un-nerved at falling asleep with him.
But, it was just a few days ago, she had slept between Eli and Coop
on this very same bed. It was accidental, they were practicing, bull-shitting,
and picking on Eli. It was when all five of them got together, the other four
ganged up on Eli. It really pissed him off. So, they did it as often as they
could. But, when she had slept between Coop and Eli, it was liking having a
guard dog on either side of her. Now, so close to Eli, she deemed him a big
teddy bear. With this last thought, she drifted off to sleep.
Eli awoke to hearing a guitar being played rapidly, and quite well.
He groaned, rubbed his eyes, then decided to turn on his soft-glow lamp, rather
than switch on the ceiling light. Eli moaned, as his eyes adjusted to the light.
What he saw was quite possibly the most beautiful sight he could have imagined.
Off to the right of his bed, Grace sat in a wooden chair, playing her guitar.
From his view, he could see just the right-side of her profile - it was a nice view.
He took in all that she wore. Grace's garb was simple night-wear:
baggy, snow-camo pants, and a tight fitting black, long-sleeved shirt. Her
hair was down, suffering from a terrible case of bed-head. Eli was drawn
to her hands - she did not have exceeding long fingers. No wonder she sings
better, he thought. Grace had failed to notice Eli awake. Even the light
coming on did not break her from the trance.
She had woken up in Eli's arms - this scared the hell out of her.
She had gently removed herself from his embrace, then was about to make a
b-line for the door. Then, she had seen pale moonlight engulf his troubled
face. And, that's when she realized that she wanted him to be her inspiration
once more. She had shuffled through clothes, cds, picks, drumsticks - all on
his floor - to find her spiral notebook - her rough-draft notebook. Grace
barely flinched when her hands had found his boxers, and un-opened condoms.
Eventually she had found the notebook, shoved carelessly under the bed,
compliments of his large feet. Grace began to write . . . and the rest
was history.
Now, she started the song over, and sang. Eli was captivated by
her motivation: it was three a.m., and she was wide awake. He simply
listened, that was all he could do for the time being . . .
" Play with fire and you're gonna' get wet:
I have a strong will, and I'm gonna' stay set
Play with water and you're gonna get burned:
I may be young, but I've already learned . . .
But, then I look at you with your spiked brown hair,
Hazel-Green eyes,
And the scowl you wear . . .
And, you don't know it, but you'll be my demise - my demise,
and yeah, you don't know it.
The ways of the world are the ways of men:
Yeah, they're gonna' be Her descent,
The ways of men are the ways of war:
They're gonna' cut Her open and leave her sore.
But, then I look at you with your spiked brown hair,
Hazel-Green eyes,
And the scowl you wear . . .
And, you don't know it, but you'll be my demise - my demise,
and yeah, you don't know it.
So, slice my flesh and leave me to bleed,
I know even that won't make you see,
I'm only mortal, but I'll still heal.
You'll open the gates of hell when you take my will.
But, then I look at you with your spiked brown hair,
Hazel-Green eyes,
And the scowl you wear . . .
And, you don't know it, but you'll be my demise - my demise, and
yeah, you don't know it."
Finally, Grace was at piece. The music - the words were out and
she could rest. Setting he guitar on the floor, she stood up. She glanced
at Eli, surprised to find him awake, and seemingly wide-eyed. Offering a
lop-side grin, she trotted out of his room, and back to hers. With the
concluding thud of his door shutting, Eli turned off the lamp, sighing.
There was something about her words; so harrowing to him. They actually
made him want ponder over each and every stanza. With troubled thoughts,
Eli Sammler fell to slumber's clutches.
Author's Note: I altered the song so it would fit Grace's writings.
The original version is as follows:
Play with fire and you're gonna' get wet:
I have a strong will, and I'm gonna' stay set
Play with water and you're gonna get burned:
I may be young, but I've already learned . . .
But, then I look at you with your white blonde hair,
Cool grey eyes,
And the scowl you wear . . .
And, you don't know it, but you'll be my demise - my demise,
and yeah you don't know it.
The ways of the world are the ways of men:
Yeah, they're gonna' be Her descent,
The ways of men are the ways of war:
They're gonna' cut her open and leave her sore.
But, then I look at you with your white blonde hair,
Cool grey eyes,
And the scowl you wear . . .
And, you don't know it but, you'll be my demise - my demise,
and yeah you don't know it.
So, slice my flesh and leave me to bleed,
I know even that won't make you see,
I'm only mortal, but I'll still heal.
You'll open the gates of hell when you take my will.
But, then I look at you with your white blonde hair,
Cool grey eyes,
And the scowl you wear . . .
And, you don't know it but, you'll be my demise - my demise,
and yeah you just don't know it.
I suppose I should have said this in the first chapter. I am
a starving artist, also known as a muscian, and poet. All the songs featured in this
story are written by me. I wish I could get the rest of the band off their
lazy asses and help me write some new ones, though. I seriously think the guys hang
around my house just to eat all my food; that or try and drive me to suicide
(titters insanely.)
I am trying to insert at least one song in each chapter. In the first chapter,
the song is called, Please, Say You'll Wait For Me. In the second chapter, it is
called, You Don't Know It. Well, for those of you who don't like the lyrics - I am
what I am, and no one can change that - not even bad reviews.
Thank you, to all of those who have reviewed, and to
Grace Manning sat on Eli Sammler's bed; alone, and very frustrated.
Though his room was always cluttered, and very messy - it was more so at the
moment. A spiral notebook lay in front of her, while ripped, balled up pages
were strewn about. It looked as if it had snowed recycled paper. Suddenly,
she felt the urge to make a snow angels amongst the balls of paper, and dirty
clothes. So, she opted for turning her guitar on it's front, then proceeded
to bang her head continuously.
Grace found that the dull thud let out her frustation due to writer's
block. She had written one song, and everyone told her it was good. One song,
she thought, angrily, that's all I got - I need more. A pleather bound book was
off to her left, holding all her poems, sonnets, and odes - even prose was
scattered through the worn pages. And, after studying all of her writings,
she could not figure out how to make them into music.
For her, the melody was simple to think of. It depended on the poem,
really: if it was a lamentful poem, then it would be a slow song; if an outraged,
or angry poem, it would be fast. That was the only simple part of turning a poem
into a song. Sighing heavily, Grace ceased trying beat some inspiration into her
mind. She leaned on the cool surface of her guitar, breathing in the musty scent
that littered Eli's room. There were traces of the Irish Spring soap scent,
dabbed with a tiny bit of pot, then cigarettes. She thought it odd how he never
wore cologne, yet his soap seemed to substitute for it.
What was even more odd, was that he smoked - mostly cigarettes now -
but the smell never seemed to linger long enough to disgust her. Laughing,
she told herself she must be some kind of freak for pondering Eli's scents,
rather than working on her song. The spiral notebook was laughing at her
right now, she decided. It seemed that everything was doing that now a days.
With a feeling of utter despair at only having some of the new song she was
working on, she went back to bashing her forehead against her vintage guitar.
Without warning, the garage door swung open, but Grace continued a
rhythmic thud anyway. The sound of the door shutting did not come to her
ears. Eli smirked as he stood near the doorway: she was very amusing after
what he had been through today. He shook his head, silently making his way
over to her. Swiftly, he stuck his hand between her head and guitar, stopping
her belittling of herself.
Grace might have been startled normally. But, she was used to having
people just show up unexpectantly. Ever since a few days ago, she felt like
she got no time to herself. Over the past few days, Eli, Wink, Coop, or Ted
had barged in to her bedroom, ranting about this or that. She was happy her
door had a lock on it. When the rest of the band was not inhaling the food
at the Manning/Sammler house, she snuck away to the garage. Then, she was
glad that Eli was working most of those times.
If it's not the guys bugging the hell out me, she cursed, it's Zoe
- I can tolerate Jessie most of the time, because she does not jump up and
down when telling me something. Each of the guys had their own signature
complaint, that they felt that they had to share with Grace. Almost instantly
she became their seragant Mother, and little Sister all at once.
Coop had a problem with girls, Grace had surmised. Not that he did
not have numerous girlfriends, to which Grace scourned, and thought less of
him. It was that he could not talk to them, in the sense that every word that
came out of his mouth was something piggish, shovanistic, or just plain crude.
But, Grace did not blame him: he was raised by his Father, and had four
Brothers. And, he had absolutely no intuition, simply he lacked common sense.
Ted was the pessimist, as well as the strategist. While the others
opted for acting in the heat of the moment, he thought about what came after.
Grace admired him for this fact, thinking that he would make a nice boyfriend.
Ted, like Eli saw nothing in his own future, and he now worked along side of
Eli at Booklovers. With being labeled the emotional one, he allowed himself
to get walked over - a lot. So, Grace took it upon herself to make him take
a stand . . .
Which leads to Wink, Grace thought, allowing an amused grin to
grow upon her face. He was not exactly the easiest person to get along
with, nor was he the most interesting. Yet, Grace liked him for some
unfathomable reason: he was funny, excentric, and he had a nice ass, too.
But, he seemed so simple minded to her. There were three things that were
always on Wink's mind: food, sex, and music. Then, there was self-centeredness.
She found that he never did anything really kind, unless there was something in
it for him. And, to Grace's astoundment, he has a softer side: he revealed
that he could not stand to see a girl cry. Wow, she had thought, and could
not speak to him for hours.
"Do that enough, and you might actually get a brain," teased Eli.
Pulling off his work shirt, he plopped on his bed, causing
rippling effects to overcome Grace. It was frightening, she thought.
If two weeks ago she had seen Eli shirtless, she would have blushed
ferociously, and would have run the opposite direction. Now, here he was -
his foot currently poking her in the back. She slapped his leg away, pulling
her pleather book out from under his knees.
"Ass," Grace proclaimed.
"You know you love it,"
Being the ever mature girl that she was, Grace calmly turned
her head to stick her tongue out at him. This only served for him to
smirk, then flip her off. Shaking her head, she started mulling over
her writings. Grace threw the book down to floor, uttering a small
stream of curses.
"You kiss your Mother with that mouth?"
"That's a little bit of the pot calling the kettle black,"
"Touche. Let me hear what you've got,"
"Not 'til it's finished,"
"Oh, for fuck's sake . . . Just play it all ready!" Eli sat up,
glaring at her slightly.
"Bad day?"
"You have no fucking idea,"
Eli crawled over toward Grace on his stomach. He laid his head
on her legs, waiting for her to play something. In truth, he had come
to enjoy hearing her musings. There was something in her words - sorrow -
longing - need? Eli gave up trying to figure out Grace; he simply wanted to
hear her voice. Grace strummed her guitar a bit, then began a fast sort of
tune, which grabbed his attention immediately . . .
" Play with fire and you're gonna' get wet:
I have a strong will, and I'm gonna' stay set
Play with water and you're gonna get burned:
I may be young, but I've already learned . . .
But, then I look at you with your spiked brown hair,
Hazel-Green eyes,
And the scowl you wear . . .
And, you don't know it, but you'll be my demise - my demise, and
yeah, you don't know it."
She continued to play the music, and pondered over words. Eli,
absent-mindedly tapped his fingers to the beat. It was good, and different
from her first song - a mixture of alternative and rock, and something he
could not quite detect. Suddenly, she stooped and placed her guitar on the
floor. Eli moved his head to her lap, and she instinctively started to play
with his hair.
"It's so hard to transfer poetry to song. But, not becauses poetry isn't
music, it's the . . . "
"The chorus," he finished for her, eyes closed.
"Yeah . . . I don't see how anyone does this for a living. Probably a
hell of a lot better writers than me - probably better inspiration, too,"
"Where did you used to get it from, huh?" Eli opened his eyes, catching
her gaze.
"Oh," Grace swallowed, finding her mouth to suddenly be dry, "people -
certain people."
Grace smiled, and Eli shut his eyes once more. She could tell
instantly that he was exhausted, and she pondered of just leaving him to
get some rest. Grace stirred slightly, but was surprised when he grabbed
her waist.
"Mmm," he mumbled, "stay."
"Oh, yeah, that's easy for you to say. You get to use my thighs a plush
pillow, and I get left with a big sitting up fuck you. Well, I'll have
you know, Eli, I am not a god-damned . . . "
Swiftly, Eli sat up, turned and pulled them toward his pillows.
He laid on his stomach, pushing her to his side. It left her flat on her
back, with his right arm draped around her mid-drift. Grace barely realized
what had happped. She was in the middle of starting a big lecture. Damn,
she cursed Eli Sammler, I was going to let him have it - whatever it is.
"I'm not staying in your . . ."
Eli clamped his hand over her mouth, and left there for a few moments.
"Shut up, Grace," he said into his pillow, "you talk too damn much."
Grace scoffed, and closed her eyes. She felt Eli move, then
darkness washed over them. When she felt his lithe body next to her,
she froze momentarily. Her life flashed before her eyes, when thinking
what her Mother would say if she caught them in this situation. Then,
Eli pulled her to rest on his chest. Maybe she should have been a bit
un-nerved at falling asleep with him.
But, it was just a few days ago, she had slept between Eli and Coop
on this very same bed. It was accidental, they were practicing, bull-shitting,
and picking on Eli. It was when all five of them got together, the other four
ganged up on Eli. It really pissed him off. So, they did it as often as they
could. But, when she had slept between Coop and Eli, it was liking having a
guard dog on either side of her. Now, so close to Eli, she deemed him a big
teddy bear. With this last thought, she drifted off to sleep.
Eli awoke to hearing a guitar being played rapidly, and quite well.
He groaned, rubbed his eyes, then decided to turn on his soft-glow lamp, rather
than switch on the ceiling light. Eli moaned, as his eyes adjusted to the light.
What he saw was quite possibly the most beautiful sight he could have imagined.
Off to the right of his bed, Grace sat in a wooden chair, playing her guitar.
From his view, he could see just the right-side of her profile - it was a nice view.
He took in all that she wore. Grace's garb was simple night-wear:
baggy, snow-camo pants, and a tight fitting black, long-sleeved shirt. Her
hair was down, suffering from a terrible case of bed-head. Eli was drawn
to her hands - she did not have exceeding long fingers. No wonder she sings
better, he thought. Grace had failed to notice Eli awake. Even the light
coming on did not break her from the trance.
She had woken up in Eli's arms - this scared the hell out of her.
She had gently removed herself from his embrace, then was about to make a
b-line for the door. Then, she had seen pale moonlight engulf his troubled
face. And, that's when she realized that she wanted him to be her inspiration
once more. She had shuffled through clothes, cds, picks, drumsticks - all on
his floor - to find her spiral notebook - her rough-draft notebook. Grace
barely flinched when her hands had found his boxers, and un-opened condoms.
Eventually she had found the notebook, shoved carelessly under the bed,
compliments of his large feet. Grace began to write . . . and the rest
was history.
Now, she started the song over, and sang. Eli was captivated by
her motivation: it was three a.m., and she was wide awake. He simply
listened, that was all he could do for the time being . . .
" Play with fire and you're gonna' get wet:
I have a strong will, and I'm gonna' stay set
Play with water and you're gonna get burned:
I may be young, but I've already learned . . .
But, then I look at you with your spiked brown hair,
Hazel-Green eyes,
And the scowl you wear . . .
And, you don't know it, but you'll be my demise - my demise,
and yeah, you don't know it.
The ways of the world are the ways of men:
Yeah, they're gonna' be Her descent,
The ways of men are the ways of war:
They're gonna' cut Her open and leave her sore.
But, then I look at you with your spiked brown hair,
Hazel-Green eyes,
And the scowl you wear . . .
And, you don't know it, but you'll be my demise - my demise,
and yeah, you don't know it.
So, slice my flesh and leave me to bleed,
I know even that won't make you see,
I'm only mortal, but I'll still heal.
You'll open the gates of hell when you take my will.
But, then I look at you with your spiked brown hair,
Hazel-Green eyes,
And the scowl you wear . . .
And, you don't know it, but you'll be my demise - my demise, and
yeah, you don't know it."
Finally, Grace was at piece. The music - the words were out and
she could rest. Setting he guitar on the floor, she stood up. She glanced
at Eli, surprised to find him awake, and seemingly wide-eyed. Offering a
lop-side grin, she trotted out of his room, and back to hers. With the
concluding thud of his door shutting, Eli turned off the lamp, sighing.
There was something about her words; so harrowing to him. They actually
made him want ponder over each and every stanza. With troubled thoughts,
Eli Sammler fell to slumber's clutches.
Author's Note: I altered the song so it would fit Grace's writings.
The original version is as follows:
Play with fire and you're gonna' get wet:
I have a strong will, and I'm gonna' stay set
Play with water and you're gonna get burned:
I may be young, but I've already learned . . .
But, then I look at you with your white blonde hair,
Cool grey eyes,
And the scowl you wear . . .
And, you don't know it, but you'll be my demise - my demise,
and yeah you don't know it.
The ways of the world are the ways of men:
Yeah, they're gonna' be Her descent,
The ways of men are the ways of war:
They're gonna' cut her open and leave her sore.
But, then I look at you with your white blonde hair,
Cool grey eyes,
And the scowl you wear . . .
And, you don't know it but, you'll be my demise - my demise,
and yeah you don't know it.
So, slice my flesh and leave me to bleed,
I know even that won't make you see,
I'm only mortal, but I'll still heal.
You'll open the gates of hell when you take my will.
But, then I look at you with your white blonde hair,
Cool grey eyes,
And the scowl you wear . . .
And, you don't know it but, you'll be my demise - my demise,
and yeah you just don't know it.