Oh Christ
In whom I don't believe
Someone's dead
And she used to be a friend
A million years ago
What is going on
When someone of eighteen
Gets ripped apart
By some casual disease?

As always,
I always thought
That she was beautiful
And perfectly
But now she's dead
And I should be more bothered
But we hadn't spoken
In four years
And tomorrow I'm eighteen
So I'll probably get killed too
One of these days