My roof is made of wicker
My house made of papier-mâché
It collapses every time
under the echo of my voice
I am the only one bored of you
When you leave...
My heart is made of stone
Insensitive and hard as iron
It quietly erodes
with each gust of wind
What does the slamming door do
When you leave...
Happiness is a flash in the pan
ephemeral brush fire
It goes up in smoke
When the blaze goes out
That you stop fanning it
When you leave...
When you leave...
When you leave...

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