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There is a road that meets the road that goes to my house |
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And how it green grows there |
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And we've got special boots to beat the path to my house |
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And it's careful and it's careful when I'm there |
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And I say your uncle was a crooked French Canadian |
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And he was gut-shot runnin' gin |
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And how his guts were all suspended in his fingers |
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And how he held 'em, how he held 'em, held 'em in |
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And the water rolls down the drain |
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(Water rolls down the drain) |
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The water rolls down the drain |
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(Water rolls down the drain) |
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Oh, what a lonely thing in a lonely drain |
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July, July, July, it never seemed so strange |
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July, July, July, it never seemed so |
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It never seemed so strange |
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This is the story of the road that goes to my house |
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And what goes there do remain |
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And all the troughs that run the length and breadth of my house |
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And the chickens how they rattle chicken chains |
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And we'll remember this when we are old and ancient |
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Though the specifics might be vague |
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And I'll say your camisole was sprightly light magenta |
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When in fact it was a nappy blueish grey |
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And the water rolls down the drain |
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(Water rolls down the drain) |
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The blood rolls down the drain |
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(Water rolls down the drain) |
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Oh, what a lonely thing in a blood red drain |
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July, July, July, it never seemed so strange |
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July, July, July, it never seemed so |
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It never seemed so strange, it never seemed so strange |
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It never seemed so strange, it never seemed so strange |
