Liz Belmont Madhouse In this house, the pepper's in the salt shaker, the salt's in the sugar bowl, the sugar's in the flour bin, and nobody can taste the difference. In this house, the drugs don't work. We huff paint fumes and grow brain cells, big, juicy brain cells, and feed them to the cats like Tender Vittles. In this house, the car's in the garden shed and the dirty laundry's in the pantry. We plant the tulip bulbs upside down just so's next spring will be beautiful in China. In this house, we have fun, twirl around until we puke, and then we do it again, and then we fall into a big heap and cry until the carpet's soaked with our tears and we laugh when the goldfish tries to do the backstroke on the living room floor. In this house, we've got plenty of room, but no place to sit.