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