Who is your ex-wife,
And why did she divorce you?
Flowers aren\'t flowers without an explanation;
A murderer of sorts, a murderer of the mind
You get me away from my body
Because you are a bully,
And bullies fall in their own pit; eventually
Your death is already here...
Just look at the book in the box
And what the hell are you standing for
When you\'ve just sat down?
For you get people down, yet they beg for mercy
And pretty flowers are just pretty hands
Tied to your niches,
Prepare to go down in flames in your death
For hell is a place of torment, I must confess;
Dear devil, why must you do this?
Why must you hand me pretty flowers
And then expect me to die?
For Jim, you are the devil
Dressed in library confessions
You dance to the tune of your own mind
And then you panic at the sight of yourself
Die, die, little Jim;
For the little boy inside you is happy
In the self-destruction of others,
You are a red omen in a tainted sky
Magical flames are everywhere
And there is your ex-wife standing at the door
Screaming your name
Jim, Jim; your death is so beautiful
Your romance conspiracy
Is the death of your book
That was never once written in print,
Oh what happened to this memoir
That was supposed to be a beautiful destiny?
For I am scared of your hands all over me...
For I am scared of your deliverance...
Deep, deep conspiracies
Make people die
Because your conspiracies are all lies,
Lies...lies...lies;
And you are a fish in a barrel
Destined to drown
Shoot me please, do you have a gun?
For life is just a blank
A poem named Jim
Is just a poetic disaster...
Rape me with your words, not your praise;
Tall and muscular you are
I see a monster in return
Dead in the abyss,
I want to go home
And the love you give to people is of self-destruction
I have last seen a rainbow in the sky;
Rape, rape, sorrowful rape
I have seen my time on this earth
For what is life of an empath
Who has been destroyed?
My power is stricken before me.
Your dark sense of humor has ruined me
And the piano has died in your eyes...
Oh where is the music that defines us?
Oh where is the music that lives?
For rape is a word not stricken...
So why am I so defensive?
Well maybe because it is stricken
And I am stricken with it.
The beautiful rose that has once died
Has grown in the dark,
And I am not promiscuous,
At least not anymore
And many doors have opened
Yet they are all locked...
I feel my life is a dying pang
Hungry from the strife;
Thank you, Jim.