Strange Days

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 gra*ses 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?