Open house now for your fading heart,

Tell your ghost it's time to hide;

Strangers won't know when to stop and start

Once they've fin'ly got inside.



Spir'ling staircase toward your dusty mind,

With crates and boxes and bags and trunks;

No one cares what tender dreams they'll find,

All they'll see up there is junk



With silver dollars from a ragdoll's ear

And merc'ry dimes for buttons, too,

And flutes and whistles only kids can hear

And peacock feathers green and blue.



Deep depression in a walnut grain,

Afternoons on rainy days;

Once it stacked up well in both your brains,

And now it's all some purple haze



With vandals picking locks and breaking doors

And smashing keepsakes all around;

Souvenirs of love and foreign shores

And scrapbook pages all unbound.



It's open house now for your fading heart,

Tell your ghost it's time to hide;

Strangers won't know when to stop and start

Once they've fin'ly got inside.