The grass is greener
on the other side.
People are happy, laughing and living and loving.
They don't think about us over here.
They don't see us.

The grass is greener on the other side.
My mother says I'm obsessed.
She tries to drag me away with chores and social events.
But the people do not care
about anything I say.
They merely go on their way.

The grass is greener over there.
Those who curl their toes into the soft grass
do not think about it.
They are not thankful for what they have.

The grass here is dull, and always dead.
I think about it for hours, the whys and hows spinning in my head.
But even so, I shan't dare to step over there.
After all, if I do the devil will surely rip from my hair.

He'll pull and pull until he can see my skull
and if I'm unlucky, he might just mount it to his hull.

Because even if the grass is greener on the other side,
this is the lighter side of hell.