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• Artiste: Brazil
• Titre: Strange Days
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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?