| When I build my home
|
| That I shall have some day;
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| It’ll be like I want it
|
| Oh — and I mean that in every way
|
| I have yet to see any
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| That would cope with the style —
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| Of the house that I dream of;
|
| That I’ll build after a while
|
| The roof of it will have peak lines
|
| And contours that dip;
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| And form shadowy eaves
|
| Where the little raindrops can drip
|
| … That sweet pitter patter
|
| Of raindrops at play —
|
| Is such a beautiful sound
|
| On a quiet gloomy day
|
| You know, when the wind is high
|
| And the storm gods race
|
| And I’ll be snugged up
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| By my fire-place
|
| Maybe feeding my little dog
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| Or playing with my little cat
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| But unconsciously yearning
|
| And wonderin' where you’re at
|
| But when the meadow is shadowed
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| By that old sinking sun;
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| And the roses are bowing
|
| For the dew drops to come;
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| At my old upright piano
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| With pure ivory keys
|
| I’ll just plunk out some vibrations
|
| Of whatever I please
|
| Sometimes it’ll be classics
|
| Sometimes lullabies;
|
| But mostly rock n' roll
|
| — that I’ll surely improvise
|
| And with my favourite guitar
|
| I’ll be just strummin' away
|
| And bidding goodbye
|
| To another beautiful day
|
| A portrait of my angel
|
| That I love most of all —
|
| I’ll have painted from a snapshot
|
| Onto my bedroom wall
|
| Where the suns warm rays
|
| And the moon’s cold beam
|
| Will cast her reflection
|
| As I lay there and dream
|
| You know, I can’t deny
|
| — but it makes me so sad
|
| When I think that I’ve lost
|
| All that I could have had
|
| It was best for her —
|
| And I guess I, I know;
|
| That she measured my love —
|
| And then asked me to go
|
| Then Finally my house
|
| I will have it complete
|
| And I’ll take up a smoke
|
| Sitting by the window sill
|
| And I’ll read my many books
|
| That I’ll have in my bachelors nest;
|
| While the sun goes drooping
|
| — down in the west
|
| And I’ll feel that gold
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| Warm light on my face;
|
| And then I’ll start trippin'
|
| To some far off place
|
| That through all of my travels
|
| I must have missed somewhere —
|
| A place that I might find
|
| My angel someday
|
| And I’ll leave all that I have
|
| To the gods, up above;
|
| And go spend my life searching
|
| For the angel, that I love
|
| For all of my dreams
|
| Would be but a souvenir;
|
| Compared to the one
|
| That I love so dear |