P.S. Get Lost

I'm leaning on my elbows

Got a backbone full of hate

Been spying through your diary

Arrived at June the eighth

I'm working out your scribble

I don't like what I read

It says here "Amos Jackson,

This boy sells what I need"

Well, the first of March was D-day

In the battle of your bed

It's all down here in black and white

The queen of hearts is red

So I'm tearing out the pages

Days, weeks, months and years

Gonna fry them for your supper

Served up with salad tears

P.S. Get lost

P.S. Get lost

P.S. Get lost

P.S. Get...

The picture's slowly building

The queen bee in her hive

You're gonna feel my sting, girl

My hands become ten knives

Been snooping round your palace

Found a mojo in the drawer

Two jade monkeys on a chain

And a black cat's frozen paw

P.S. Get lost

P.S. Get lost

P.S. Get lost

P.S. Get...

Your bed's still warm from lovin'

The sheets, they don't tell lies

The shirt that's drying by the fire

It's silk and it's not my size

Found a note pinned to the pillow

Your words bite cold as frost

"Amos Jackson's moving in"

And ends: P.S. Get lost

P.S. Get lost

P.S. Get lost

P.S. Get lost

P.S. Get lost

P.S. Get lost

P.S. Get lost

P.S. Get lost

P.S. Get lost

P.S. Get lost

P.S. Get lost

P.S. Get lost

P.S. Get...