• Her name was Sunday

    And she loved to dance in the summer's breeze

    Though passers by

    Always used to wince and cry

    At the sight of her blood stained knees

    Her name was Sunday

    She's still searching for her long lost muses

    She could work wonders with pencils, paint, and anything that caught her eye

    And she was never phased when passers by

    Used to cringe at her cuts and bruises

    Her name was Sunday

    And she was as beautiful as the morning sun

    "It was such a shame," said the passers by

    Oh, how they cried

    When Sunday came face to face with that gun

    Her name was Sunday

    And she still believed he loved her

    Even when he made her cry

    "He's a nasty piece of work," whispered the passers by,

    Though they never believed he'd shoot her.