No lyricist is safe from me I have a habit of twisting lyrics round. “Our House” by the punk band Madness is no exception “Our house in the middle of our street” became “Dead mouse in the middle of our street, dead mouse it’s impossible to eat”.
I know it’s a shame but I can’t help it I was born this way.
I bit of pure nonesense today, which makes Spike Milligan appear sane.

OUR HOUSE.

Early mid century Gothic Victorian Tudor
It’s facade not so much a face but something much ruder
ceilings all glass, and a floor of green grass
A table of numbers and chairs made of gas

The roof it slopes inward to the chimney below
There’s a chocolate fireplace where we cook freshly boiled snow
We painted the walls in invisible brown
In the garden moles fly between trees upside down

The doors they all open inside out
Whether we are coming or going we often have doubt
When we have guests round for dinner or tea
They love to go upstairs and paddle in the sea

Sat on the railway lines to the south of Nowhere Land
In the middle of a forest of bright blue sand
We love our little house, though it doesn’t make sense
But then neither do we I say in it’s defence

All words Meadowhead Bard.