There is a road that meets the road
That goes to my house

And how the green grows there
And we've got special boots
To beat the path to my house

And it's careful and it's careful when I'm there

And I say your uncle was a crooked french canadian

And he was gut-shot running gin
And how his guts were all suspended in his fingers
and how he held 'em

How he held 'em held, 'em in

And the water rolls down the drain

The water rolls down the drain
O, what a lonely thing
In a lonely drain


July, July, July
It never seemed so strange


This is the story of the road that goes to my house
And what ghosts there do remain

And all the troughs that run the length and breadth of my house
And the chickens how they rattle chicken chains


And we'll remember this when we are old and ancient
Though the specifics might be vague
And I'll say your camisole was a sprightly light magenta

When in fact it was a nappy bluish grey

And the water rolls down the drain

The blood rolls down the drain
O, what a lonely thing
In a blood red drain


July, July, July
It never seemed so strange