Peter was a young, shy boy,
With brown locks of hair,
Peter had tons of toys,
But he said he couldn't care.
Peter never played with the toys,
And never seemed to smile,
Peter was a sad little boy and had been for a while.
Peter's mummy was never there,
To kiss him on his head,
Peter's mummy was never there,
She never tucked him into bed.
Peter knew that he wasn't wanted,
He knew that no one cared,
So he dashed each wrist with a plastic knife,
To make his mummy scared.
His mummy, then she wondered how Peter could of known,
She wondered how he'd gotten so tall, skinny and overgrown.
Peter was an older boy now and a mature young man,
people ask him about his mother and he quietly repeats the words, "she ran".
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