The old man died and her soul went along
Not that she really knew him
And they were caught like flies in a posthumous web
On a thread marked "Next of kin"
And now they have what once was his own
And all the stories besides
She begins to rummage and hopes to strike carpet
So perhaps she can go for a ride

Or maybe she'll sell it, maybe she'll keep it
Maybe she'll burn it, maybe she'll eat it
Maybe she'll spit on it outside and in, just to clean it off
Or maybe she'll dance all over it
Maybe she'll dance

She took fifty-six flannels and washed them all clean
The fire marshall comes today
A can of weiner bits bursts into flames
She's got sixty-two records to play

Or maybe she'll sell them, maybe she'll keep them
Maybe she'll burn them, maybe she'll eat them
Maybe she'll spit on them outside and in, just to clean them off
Or maybe she'll dance all over them
Maybe she'll

Take a giant vat of nails and screws and
Throw it down the stairs
Then take heaps of paint, heaps of paint and glue and
See if the living care

And now there's the house that held all this stuff
Grandfather left her here
She can't wiggle her nose or pray to some God
To make the house disappear

But maybe she'll sell it, maybe she'll keep it
Maybe she'll burn it, maybe she'll eat it
Maybe she'll spit on it outside and in, just to clean it off
Or maybe she'll dance,
Maybe she'll dance all over...

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