It's the crackhouse
haunting my dreams again,
yea, the crackhouse
leaking brambly beams again,
the crackhouse
where the lights keep flashing in.

Crackhouse,
shackhouse,
off-the-track house,
clickety-clack house,
o, the crackhouse.

Every li'l croft should have one
out behind the barn somewhere,
downwind of the pigsty.

All sorts of things keep radiating in
from the six corners of the world,
truly cosmic flotsam & jetsam.

It's the pride of our little airstrip
out there back of the barn,
it's really open, man, shining.

Crackhouse,
blackhouse,
hole-in-the-back house,
rickety-rack house,
o, the crackhouse.

Standing on stately grounds, it is:
jimson & locoweed thick & high,
fairest sight you ever saw.

It's a mirror of reality,
flaunting splendidly shredded,
rust-and-moss-embedded tin roof.

Coming, going, in faraway places,
at sundown I see it glowing, light up,
o, the glory.

Crackhouse,
out-of-whack house,
ruin-and-rack house,
flickety-flack house,
o, the crackhouse.

If ever the going gets rough
I trust I can always go home
and hide in the crackhouse.