There was an old composer who lived in a crooked house.

He had so many floors, too many for a mouse.

Each crooked wall had a crooked portrait,

Complete outside with a little crooked gate.

There was a young composer who lived next to a crooked house.

Who played his guitar to wake every living mouse.

This was his first home of his own,

And it’s so sad to see him dead and gone.

There was a crooked house, separated by time.

It has so many floors, now covered in signs.

This way to the room ordained with pianos,

This way to the hall of a Rock n’ Roll hero.

But in this crooked house,

No soul now stirs, not even a mouse.