Look at him.
Standing there, in his ba*tard shoes and his ba*tard suit.
Couldn't look at her, could you?
Look at him.
Smiling there, with his callous eyes and his friendly guise.
Win them over, would you?
Look at him.
Semblance of a father. On his feet in the dock, hand on bible.
Tell the whole truth, would you?
Look at him.
His lawyer, pandering. The judge, meandering.
Grant him custody, would you?
Look at him.
Victorious. Vainglorious. Takes the kids in to his arms.
Couldn't give her a chance, could you?
But look at her.
That bruise on her eye didn't come from nowhere -
and who do you think was paying for the hospital bills
and the birth control pills after he took advantage
and left her to rot? Yet she insists not.
Just look at her.
Battered and bruised. Hurt and abused.
But tight-lipped. Nondescript.
“He wouldn't hurt a bloody fly.”
Look at the pair of them.
A marital disparity. Divorced from reality.
Him over there, with no remorse.
How fair is that? He gets the kids and the house
Because her over there? Quiet as a mouse.
What kind of hold does he have over her?
She's scared. Impaired.
She'd protect him till the very end,
no matter what.
So she forgot.