Well, Frankie Lee, he panicked He dropped ev’rything and ran Until he came up to the spot Where Judas Priest did stand “What kind of house is this,” he said “Where I have come to roam?” “It’s not a house,” said Judas Priest “It’s not a house . . . it’s a home” Well, Frankie Lee, he trembled He soon lost all control Over ev’rything which he had made While the mission bells did toll He just stood there staring At that big house as bright as any sun With four and twenty windows And a woman’s face in ev’ry one Well, up the stairs ran Frankie Lee With a soulful, bounding leap And, foaming at the mouth He began to make his midnight creep For sixteen nights and days he raved But on the seventeenth he burst Into the arms of Judas Priest Which is where he died of thirst No one tried to say a thing When they took him out in jest Except, of course, the little neighbor boy Who carried him to rest And he just walked along, alone With his guilt so well concealed And muttered underneath his breath “Nothing is revealed” Well, the moral of the story The moral of this song Is simply that one should never be Where one does not belong So when you see your neighbor carryin’ somethin’ Help him with his load And don’t go mistaking Paradise For that home across the road Read more: http://ift.tt/1rqk5QC

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