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