I remember when people used to live
in that old, torn house
in that old, torn house
Kids running around
under their mother’s watchful eyes
sitting on the porch
Sweet, innocent memories now decayed
under their mother’s watchful eyes
sitting on the porch
Sweet, innocent memories now decayed
Not it’s an empty, broken shell
a reminder of what was
but is now lost
a reminder of what was
but is now lost
Rats and moths
dead on the floor
Syringes too
dead on the floor
Syringes too
If the house had a human voice
it would have plenty a story to tell
it would have plenty a story to tell
