Who would of known?

To the lips of a failed writer
To crash a cup of wine

To throw a toast to an islan that's slowly sinking

I can almost hear you

Hear you crying

Momma you are killing yourself
Momma what can I do?

And I'll be the one putting pins into my fingertips
Only to erase the memories
And to laugh when I think what my father did
She sits
She waits
She toasts her prayers
Not speaks of them
Momma you are killing yourself
Momma what can I do?
She sits
She waits