There is a road that meets the road
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That goes to my house
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And how the green grows there
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And we've got special boots
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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 running gin
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And how his guts were all suspended in his fingers
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and how he held 'em
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How he held 'em held, 'em in
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And the water rolls down the drain
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The water rolls down the drain
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O, what a lonely thing
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In a lonely drain
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July, July, July
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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 ghosts 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 a sprightly light magenta
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When in fact it was a nappy bluish grey
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And the water rolls down the drain
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The blood rolls down the drain
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O, what a lonely thing
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In a blood red drain
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July, July, July
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It never seemed so strange
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-----------------
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July, July!
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The Decemberists |