Yeah. You knew all along.
You wrote THAT song. You bastard.
You left me hanging in the studio, trying to create the old bullshit popmusic, while you were brooding on your own little plan.
You let me rot in a room covered in soundproof tiles, while you were up there, in the board rooms, signing while singing. What a great Cristmas present.
I gave you everything. And you, you gave it away. And moved on. Like a butcher moves on after he desecrated another innocent lamb.
The candle is almost gone. I don’t have the strength to continue. Now where did i store my gun?
I think i’ll just go out with a WHAM!