she wasn't born in that brothel i'm told well aware of where she was well
aware of where she'd end up in what position dressed in red down on her
knees she'd done this sort of thing before choaking back on this disease
dressed to kill to die for her pretty face hides the demons inside the kind
that haunt her in her sleep she was found face down in that ditch her skirt
hiked up dressed in red down on her knees she'd done this sort of thing
before make up chases the tears down her face the handprints left on her
throat he hits her she'd ask for more he hits her she'd ask for.