She marches in with her heavy baggage and matching shoes,
With a dirty blonde attitude and a short fuse,
With a sore index finger, that keeps pushing and poking and prodding,
Pointing the blame at everyone but her,
“You don’t know anything about me” she hollers
“You don’t think about my feelings” she screams
Well you know more than she thinks,
And you think more than she’ll ever know.
She tests your love, allegations, pushing all your boundaries
Complications, trying to bring you to your knees
Aggravations, grinding you down, piece by piece,
Till there’s nothing left.
You’d do anything for love, and she knows it,
But once it’s over you won’t love again.
(That, she doesn’t know)