The man has pseudo-friends who constantly criticize his actions. They moralize him, "teach" him and advise him to make a significant change in his life, because the way he is and what he does is not what they say it should be. They may find his life lame or immoral. They hold themselves up as role models. The man replies that he will make his own choices and decisions and he does not agree to unconditionally make himself under the influence of questionable quality advice. He justifies this by saying that there is always someone for whom he will be important, no matter what he does and no matter what he is. Although it is not said directly, I read it as meaning that he will always be important to himself in every way and he will always have his own support.
"Everyone is different and maybe that's a good thing, but you exceeded that mark 1000 times" - I remember very well how sad the words I once heard (from my peers and it was in negative context) at school made me feel.
There is a road that meets the road
That goes to my house
And how it green grows there
And we've got special boots
To beat the path to my house
And it's careful and it's careful when I'm there
And I say your uncle was a crooked french Canadian
And he was gut-shot runnin' 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,
Oh what a lonely thing! in a lonely drain!
July, July, July! 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 sprightly light magenta
When in fact it was a nappy blueish grey
And the water rolls down the drain
The blood rolls down the drain
Oh what a lonely thing
In a blood red drain
July, July, July! it never seemed so strange
That goes to my house
And how it green grows there
And we've got special boots
To beat the path to my house
And it's careful and it's careful when I'm there
And I say your uncle was a crooked french Canadian
And he was gut-shot runnin' 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,
Oh what a lonely thing! in a lonely drain!
July, July, July! 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 sprightly light magenta
When in fact it was a nappy blueish grey
And the water rolls down the drain
The blood rolls down the drain
Oh what a lonely thing
In a blood red drain
July, July, July! it never seemed so strange
Lyrics submitted by sarahsavedlatin
July, July! Lyrics as written by Colin Meloy
Lyrics © BMG Rights Management
Lyrics powered by LyricFind
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