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There's a green and white house looking out at the sea,
That my grandfather built back when land was still free;
He cut all the lumber at the mill with a friend,
And he drove every nail from beginning to end.
It had a big kitchen, but the bedrooms were small,
There was no indoor plumbing or hydro at all;
A big water barrel in the porch way out back,
And a pantry where they kept salt beef and hardtack.
There was no spiral staircase or glass chandelier,
Just a kerosene lamp at the top of the stairs;
The cat would curl up on the old kitchen couch,
In my grandfather's green and white, two-story house.
While grandpa was fishing far out from the cove,
Grandma rocked in her chair by the old kitchen stove;
Sewing and darning and knitting all day,
While a pot of salt beef would keep boiling away.
A galvanized tub was her Maytag machine,
And an old scrubbing board helped her get the clothes clean;
She would hang them outside in the breeze from the sea,
And the salt air would render them soft and cling-free.
There was no spiral staircase or glass chandelier,
Just a kerosene lamp at the top of the stairs;
The cat would curl up on the old kitchen couch,
In my grandfather's green and white, two-story house.
For three generations this house was passed down,
But the last one just moved 'cause there's no work around;
They boarded the windows before they moved out,
Of my grandfather's green and white, two-story house.
Sometimes when I'm dreaming and I go back in time,
I can still see that green and white house in my mind;
I can picture them standing there both looking out,
At the sea from that green and white, two-story house.
There was no spiral staircase or glass chandelier,
Just a kerosene lamp at the top of the stairs;
The cat would curl up on the old kitchen couch,
In my grandfather's green and white, two-story house.
My grandfather's green and white, two-story house.
