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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