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Eileen was a quiet child,
No laughter in her eyes;
Somewhere in the darkness,
The innocence had died.
Where the fields run to the shore,
And the devil's paintbrush grows;
At Vernon Garfield's yellow house,
Back from the road.
Her mother was a timid soul,
Powerless and small;
She worked to buy the groceries,
And made love to alcohol.
Eileen dreamed of tenderness,
Outside the prison gate;
At Vernon Garfield's yellow house,
Childhood learned to wait.
Looking through the back door,
Of a run-down family;
Where you can't find the grace of God,
And the spirit is too weak.
Where the Island way of life,
Is nothing pretty to behold;
At Vernon Garfield's yellow house,
Back from the road.
Vernon bought her clothes to wear,
He gave her everything;
And in the backyard near the fence,
He built a tire swing.
Where Eileen played on summer days,
Spinning in the wind;
At Vernon Garfield's yellow house,
Every gift had strings.
Into her room like drifting snow,
The weekend madness came;
Silent fear and unseen tears,
No shelter from the pain.
And when the storm was over,
Eileen could breathe again;
At Vernon Garfield's yellow house,
The shadows had no names.
Looking through the back door,
Of a run-down family;
Where you can't find the grace of God,
And the spirit is too weak.
Where the Island way of life,
Is nothing pretty to behold;
At Vernon Garfield's yellow house,
Back from the road.
Now the snow has left the ditches,
And it's time to drag the lane;
And you can see white curtains blow,
From the broken window pane.
And in the sky above the birches,
A robin flies alone;
At Vernon Garfield's yellow house,
There's nobody home.
Looking through the back door,
Of a run-down family;
Where you can't find the grace of God,
And the spirit is too weak.
Where the Island way of life,
Is nothing pretty to behold;
At Vernon Garfield's yellow house,
Back from the road.
