There must be a hidden room
Somewhere in my house
thats full of all the stuff I’ve lost
(I think twas stolen by a mouse)
I bet he goes to sleep at night
on a bed made of odd socks
and wakes up to a wind charm
made from keys and old padlocks
In the corner nickels and dimes
are all neatly arranged
and that Canadian Tire money
I never got to exchange
The charger for my cellphone
prob’ly makes a decent chair
and my old shaving mirror
gets used when he does his hair
Scraps of paper line his walls
with shopping lists and names
and numbers now forgotten
yet its me who gets the blame
So all this stuff that I once had
but can no longer find
will no doubt become mine again
when he’s gone and its left behind
