"The truth, my dear," said Norma Shearer
"Is the last thing a man ever wants to hear."
It's not a joke, it's not a game
You hear it once, and you're never the same
We're poor little things
Pathetic young dears
As fragile as toast
And driven by fear
You won't forget unforgivable hurt
And that it's a surprise
only makes matters worse
Words at the wrong time
Hit the heart like a fist
I can barely stand up
I wasn't ready for this!
But you are my truth,
and that's completely clear
So I beg to differ with Miss Norma Shearer
It can't hurt me now, I'll just let it go
And burnt like these matches
and worn like these clothes
Now it's only a word
That's just how it goes
The truth cannot hurt me
I know what I know
I know, I know