There’s a car on the road down by the beck
Cruising like a ghost on through the night
There’s a house up on the hill above the valley
Dark and sleepy but one window shone a light
There’s dirt path that leads to an iron gate
A gate that doesn’t quite close all the way
There’s a big rock in the garden by the treehouse
Next to where a bright blue bicycle lay
There’s broken glass on the sill in the kitchen
A half eaten sandwich left out on the side
There’s a broken door that leads to the closet
Where the best of us know it’s safe to hide
There’s bloodstains on the walls up the stairs
Thick claggy trails leading out of every bed
There’s a bowl in the living room on the table
Filled up with things better left unsaid
There’s a phone ringing out on the table
No ears to hear the sounds of clair de lune
There’s not a hand in the house that can answer
Far away a car goes on cruising beneath the moon
