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This House
par
Grace Petrie
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This house is like a cemetery All the things he built for me The things he left behind The labours of his time The products of his mind Oh, I keep them all in line All the things he left behind This house is like a prison cell Twenty years straight down the well And all I've got is time Time on time on time Sat here with an idle mind And the questions that it finds About the ways that he was mine And it's not shame It's just something I can't name It's not love Oh, this thing I'm dying of It's his roses in the garden, it's his pictures on the wall If this house was made for talking, it would say It would say nothing at all This house is like a mockery Empty chairs and crockery And it's handsomer than most But nobody gets close Empty gla**es, none to toast And he was born to host All I entertain is ghosts This house is like his legacy All the things he meant to me The things I'll never say And I try to find a way To keep the thought at bay That if we had one more day Oh, I don't know what I'd say Yeah, Hell alone knows what I'd say 'Cause it's not shame It's just something I can't name And it's not love Oh, this thing I'm dying of It's his roses in the garden, it's his pictures on the wall If this house was made for talking, it would say It would say nothing at all It would say nothing at all This house is like a cemetery All the things he built for me The products of his mind The labours of his time Oh, I keep them all in line All the things he left behind
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