Rick Gustaitis, guitars, vocals, bass
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Inspired by self experience
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THIS OLD HOUSE
The wind is blowing from the north
and it brings the snows of winter
leaves its gift of white lying on my window sill
this old house i'm in begins
to creak and moan the crimes against her
like a frigate turns and boldly stands
against the angry sea
she was born 200 years ago
at the hands of old dirt farmers
they left their signature of strength
woven in her frame
she has bargained hard with time
and time has tried to harm her
that ghost has left her
withered, tired, old and grey
Chorus:
If this old house could talk
she would tell you of her past
how my father's, father's, father
built her strong to last
she's cozy and she's warm
come in from the cold
and silently she will whisper in your ear
welcome home, welcome home
This old house she ain't nothing fancy
just four walls and an old tar roof
and a room that was added on out back
when the family grew
she's got a cellar made of stone
with a musty old dirt floor
and the furnace is still burning coal
like she's always done before
Bridge:
I was raised there as a child
In the summer fields we’d run wild
And on that porch I heard my grandpa died
I came home to raise a family
On those walls hang a legacy
I didn’t always get there, but I tried
Now the windows they no longer close
tight against the wind
and the wood is warped in the stain glass door
that opens wide to let you in
the floors are like the rolling hills that lie outside her walls
but there's a plain and simple beauty
that keeps shining through all the flaws
Chorus
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