My cup has been filled Soon to be tilt Then blood will be spilt Over a cup that's been spilt Because it was tilt Yes, it was once filled Now a rigid red stain On this fine wood grain Mother will go insane Yes, mother will go insane And blood will be spilt All upon mothers quilt Because wine was spilt From the cup that was tilt It was overly filled To be spilt When motioned to tilt Peter steps in He stops at the door Hangs up his coat The pocket has been torn The keys are falling On to the floor From the hole in the pocket Of the coat at the door Now as the keys fall The air is displaced The new man reads The look on her face Mother is knowing This is her place Nothing surprises You can tell by her face
A collection by Patrick Smith