There’s no room in my heart,

there’s no room in my brain,

but my dreams are for rent.

I don’t waste my time,

not on looking for friends,

not on singing old hymns;

there’s simply no room in my heart.

I tear out my curls,

and shove books up my nose.

I eat maps of Mars three times a day.

Still it’s to no avail;

despite my ordeal,

there’s not enough room in my brain.

But my dreams are for rent,

yes, absolutely, for rent--

it’s only twenty-five cents a-piece.

I revisit cranky teachers,

and I cry about my aunt.

Funny, I realize I never really got over that.

Sometimes there’s ponies, but more often than not

there’s lying and flying and dying a lot.

My toe hair’s bright pink,

though I can’t imagine why.

Nor can I place that look in my newscaster’s eye.

Sure, my bedside shredder could use a good cleaning,

And sewing’s gone straight off the table.

Yet when I wake up, know your money’s well spent;

there’s not a grain of sand in my eye.

I don’t dip my dreams in coffee or season them with tear-salt,

so they’ll stay where they’re supposed to be.

Maybe it’s sad or maybe it’s sensible,

but truly it’s no choice of mine.

There’s no room in my heart.

There’s no room in my head.

What would you have me do?