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Who's that stomping all over my face |
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Where's that silhouette I'm trying to trace |
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Who's putting sponge in the bells I once rung |
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And taking my gypsy before she's begun |
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To singing in the meaning of what's in my mind |
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Before I can take home what's rightfully mine |
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Joinin' and listenin' and talkin' in rhymes |
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Stoppin' the feeling to wait for the times |
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Who's saying baby, that don't mean a thing |
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'Cause nowadays Clancy can't even sing |
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And who's all hung-up on that happiness thing |
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Who's trying to tune all the bells that he rings |
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And who's in the corner and down on the floor |
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With pencil and paper just counting the score |
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Who's trying to act like he's just in between |
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The line isn't black, if you know that it's green |
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Don't bother looking, you're too blind to see |
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Who's coming on like he wanted to be |
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And who's coming home on the old nine-to-five |
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Who's got the feeling that he came alive |
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Though havin' it, sharin' it ain't quite the same |
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It ain't no gold nugget, you can't lay a claim |
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Who's seeing eyes through the crack in the floor |
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There it is baby, don't you worry no more |
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Who should be sleepin', but is writing this song |
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Wishin' and a-hopin' he weren't so damned wrong |
