There was a man whose memories were made up, 
Of nothing. 
He pushed the elevator button, and go home, 
To nothing. 
Yes his business had prospered but women get lonely sometimes, now she has the house 
His son in college had dropped out, 
To expand his mind. 
And Sarah, his daughter had not spoken to him. 
Maybe he'd raised her the wrong way. 
He wondered. 
He checked his mailbox, with fingers a-tremblin' 
No mail, from anyone. 
"I'm home?" he said softly, as he opened the door and gazed at his empty apartment. 
Aching, thinking. 
Southbound Jericho Parkway 
Is what you call a one-way street. 
Southbound Jericho Parkway 
Is what you call a one-way street. 
At 7.20, monday after New Year, 
Mister Henry Johnson leaned against the pedal 
Aimed his Lincoln steady and drove himself into a wall. 
How could a thing sush as this ever happen. 
All the community said it was shame. 
He was a good man,he was a clean man. yeah, 
That was it: he was a good, clean man 
And his landlady said he was an exemplary tenant. 
They're always nice and quiet when they're all alone 
At his age. 
The young man sat, on a small woven mat. 
While the silken smoke it cirlcled over head. 
The cigarettes were there to prove he didn't care 
'Bout the contents of the telegram he'd just read. 
Father, father, father. 
You always seemed to be so out of reach. 
And the psychedelyc sign read: peace. 
Apartment in New York, a girl closes the door, 
And leans against it with her head bowed low. 
Thoughts raced through her mind 
Of when she was a child. 
Raised warmly by a man she didn't know. 
Father, father, father. 
She wished she had phoned him yesterday 
There were so many things she had to say 
Henry, the check is in my hands 
Brought by the insurance man to cover all my plans 
We'll have flowers, your broker will be there 
And Sarah, if she cares, and our boy with all his hair 
And the sun rose,and the sunset 
As it always has, 
And people yet unknown, were busy being born, 
And time when past.