Paroles de Martha

I'm not the kind of man to make things easy
I make the rules of the games i play
And i play them well
I've got away with words for such a long time
Won't you play my game?
Martha, our son is dying
Martha, believe me 'cos it's in my head
I've tasted our own sweet home illusion
It's getting late

I'm not the kind of man to hold emotion
The blonde-haired blue-eyed boy you loved
Is moving on
It's easier to play with her emotions
Whatever love wants
Martha, our son is dying
Martha, believe me 'cos it's in my head
I've tasted our own sweet home illusion
It's getting late