Flower کے بول

All of seventeen Eyes a purple green Treated like a Queen, she was On borrowed self esteem She would do a dance A painful masquerade Spinning you into her web Along her vain parade In her uniform Studded brass and steel Kissing lipstick, napkin stains And smearing sincerity Along her vain parade Along her veins Time crept up on her She's early gray Her reflection looks concerned As flowers hit her grave