Текст песни The Decemberists - July, July!

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 water rolls down the drain. O, what a lonely thing, In a lonely drain. July, July, July - It never seemed so strange.
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