You raise up your head
|
And you ask is this where it is?
|
And somebody points to you and says
|
"It's his"
|
And you say "What's mine?"
|
Somebody else says "Where what is?"
|
And you say, "Oh my God, am I here all alone?"
|
|
And you know something's happening,
|
But you don't know what it is
|
Do you, Mister Jones?
|
|
You hand in your ticket
|
Then you go watch the keep
|
Who immediately walks up to you
|
When he hears you speak
|
And says, "How does it feel to be such a freak?"
|
You say, "Impossible"
|
As he hands you a bone
|
|
And you know something's happening here
|
But you don't know what it is
|
Do you, Mister Jones?
|
|
Are you have many contacts
|
Among the lumberjacks
|
Do you get fax
|
When someone attacks your imagination
|
But nobody has any respect
|
Anyway, they already expect you
|
To all give a check
|
To tax-deductible charity organizations, oh yeah
|
|
Well, you walk into the room
|
Like a camel and then you frown
|
You put your eyes in your pocket
|
And your nose on the ground
|
There ought to be a law
|
Against you comin' around
|
You should be made to wear earphones
|
|
And you know something's happening here
|
But you don't know what it is
|
Do you, Mister Jones? x2
|
|
-----------------
|
Mr. Jones
|
| Grass Roots |
