Bool

  It's all in his head,
  Or maybe it's in his blood,
  When it won't come out,
  He'll take it out on me,
  He fetches a knife from the kitchen,
  Or maybe the axe from the shed,
  Then he'll come into my room,
  Where I'm sleeping in my bed,
  He'll stand over me,
  Breathing heavily,
  If it's the knife he's holding,
  I'll get a few small cuts on my arms,
  But if it's the axe,
  Who knows what he might do,
  This is why sometimes,
  I must hide away,
  Sometimes I must hide,
  So I don't die,
  He's not like this often,
  But when he is it's always bad,
  One of these days it'll all end,
  Bool,
  The End!