There's a room inside my finger

Where ghosts of authors linger

There's a little man that whispers

In a radio transmitter

There's a lady on a spider

With a baby's head beside her

There's a voice inside my earlobe

From a place the sidewalks don't go


These are strange days!


There's a man with an umbrella 

Who is smoking citronella

And he sees fantastic visions

Of a world outside my prison

There's a fountain full of ashes

And a snake beneath the grasses

And he's asking everybody

What makes them melancholy


These are strange days!


My language is patois

Philosophy is in my boudoir

My head's in Constantinople

And my body's in a bubble 

I'm a Rosicrucian Lackey

In the ministry of Peculiar Things

I will tell you my secret

But only if you keep it


These are strange days 


But enough about me, why don't you tell me about your day?