What’s He Doing In There?

An homage to Tom Waits

What’s he doing in there?
What the hell is he doing in there?
There’s a sign on the gate saying “go away”
But the lights blaze at all hours of the day

He’s up to something, we know
On a hill up that long driveway
And he always keeps the gate shut
To keep in that one mangy mutt

They say he’s a widower and fought in the war
And he wears the same clothes, always grey
When he waters the flowers on his walkway —
At least, he used to before

He only goes out now to check the post —
The only time we catch a glimpse, almost
We can’t see inside; we’re too far away
What’s he doing in there?

Sometimes the lights flicker and grow dim
But mostly the house looks quite grim
He doesn’t take care of it; he never goes out
His faith in reclusion seems fairly devout

Some nights there are noises beyond his door
Fleeting glimpses of shadows are all we’ve had
We think he must be mad
We don’t pass by there much anymore

But what’s he doing in there?
What the hell is he doing in there?
He’s up to no good, that much we can say
The house falls apart more every day

So what’s he doing in there?
He shut himself up in there so long ago
All we see now is a picture of woe
That’s all that’s left of him

We’ll find out someday
What he’s doing in there
What is he doing in there?
We have a right to know.

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