| 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
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| And merc’ry dimes for buttons, too
|
| And flutes and whistles only kids can hear
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| And peacock feathers green and blue
|
| Deep depression in a walnut grain
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| 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 |