THE GIRL DOWNSTAIRS HAS NIGHTMARES

The girl downstairs has these really bad dreams. 
She was a drum majorette once, grew up in Queens. 
She's lost in catacombs and there's these stormtrooper guys, 
with strobelights for eyes, fresh blood on their claws. 
It's the same every dream. 
It's four a.m. and I'm so glad I'm alone. 
The skylight rattles its bones at the storm and the radio murmurs some kind of techno stuff. 
The girl downstairs just screamed, must be having that dream again. 
Tonight I solved the riddle of her dream. 
But I'll never tell a soul. 
I'll write it down, wrap it up in a beanie hat and ram it down, 
ram it deep in a hole or a crack in the cliffs. 
She's just got up, I hear her moving around. 
She's put a record on, sounds like the Rolling Stones. 
She's making coffee, but those stormtrooper guys must be real close by, 
I smell their eau de cologne. 
Here it comes......