Writes me in, from a poison well to the poison pen lying
Paper thin, just a novelty, a walking simile smiling
Chapter one was the beginning of the end, in a race he couldn't win
For a prize he never knew how to love

Sticks and stones are only good for breaking bones and they're awful hard to throw with your head in the sand
Words are his skill as he moves in for the kill and leaves me skewered on his quill in a short hand

He's not a lover or a fighter, he's the writer

He pulls the strings of everybody's heart down his story arc sliding
The play's the thing, when everything that's real falls short of his idealizing

Well he's settled his vendetta In a way, and it jumped right off the page
Bound despite the lack of a spine

Sticks and stones are only good for breaking bones and they're awful hard to throw with your head in the sand
Words are his skill as he moves in for the kill and leaves me skewered on his quill in a short hand

Crossing "T"s and dotting ire, he's the writer

Sticks and stones are only good for breaking bones and they're awful hard to throw with your head in the sand
Words are his skill as he moves in for the kill and leaves me skewered on his quill in a short hand

If I'm a thief then he's a liar, he's the writer