Still A Home

This empty house
has no life of its own.
Its vacant floors
void of all poetic tone.

But i keep on paying the bank 'cause it wants its money.
They must still think there's something there.
But life doesn't worry them.
Its all a bunch of wood to them, that they paid good money for.

Some speak of beauty that walls embody
and call it home.
I speak of people, beauty embodied,
and call them home.

Come through this door anybody.
Prove these bastards all wrong.
This place i live in, is not some dead loan
this place is still a home.

But i keep on paying the bank 'cause it wants its money.
They must still think there's something there.
But life doesn't worry them.
Its all a bunch of wood to them, that they paid good money for.