Chords and Lyrics - âThis Houseâ, by Grace Petrie
Capo 4th Fret
This house is like a cemetery
Of 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,
the things he left behind
This house is like a prison cell
Twenty years straight down the well
And all Iâve got is time, on 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 itâs not shame,
Itâs just something I canât name
And itâs not love
Oh, this thing Iâm dying of
Itâs his roses in the garden, itâs his pictures on the wall
(hold)
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 itâs handsomer than most, nobody gets close
Empty glasses, none to toast, well he was born to host
But all I entertain is ghosts
This house is like his legacy
All the things he meant to me
And I try to find a way, to keep the thought at bay
That I donât know what Iâd say, oh, if weâd had one more day
Hell alone knows what Iâd say
And itâs not shame,
Itâs just something I canât name
And itâs not love
Oh, this thing Iâm dying of
Itâs his roses in the garden, itâs 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
Of 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
