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?