I hate it when they touch me,
with their dirty hands.
They have no idea that it bothers me,
or even affects me at all.
The mother she is kind and gentle,
she puts me to good use.
She cleans me and takes care of me every morning after nine.
The father he is rough and heartless,
he likes to slam me around.
The daughter she is proper and careful,
though she hardly bothers with me anymore.
The son is a spitting image of the father,
maybe a tad more naive.
he treats me like I\\\'m sure he treats everyone else in town.
I see all the mothers tears
and hear all the daughters screams.
I hear the boy curse when hes whipped
and I watch the father make a scene.
They have no idea that I remember it all
and keep it locked inside.
For when the cops come and find them dead,
I\\\'ll have nothing left to hide.
The father will run I\\\'m certain,
but I\\\'m sure he\\\'ll take the fall,
because the drips of blood will tell
on the sides of my pretty white walls.
I am the witness
I am the survivor
I am the refrigerator
