July, July! - The Decemberists

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