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