Mister Smith or Jones

You’ve got a semi-detached, suburban
Part of a conurbation, sort of life,
You don’t like to live in the city,
your asthma can’t breathe in the smog and the heat of the night,
So you want to be big in the job that you live
So you work like a hermit and you live like a pig
And you OD on women and the fags and the drink
And the drugs that make you feel like you don’t have to think
Nobody ever asks you how you feel
Dying for a living wasn’t part of the deal
It wasn’t part of the deal
Mister Smith, or Jones
What’s your name, can you explain
Just who you are?
Mister Smith, or Jones
Everybody’s waiting for you to say
Yeah
You’ve got a nifty little convertible hatchback
Company discount G.T.I.
The door’s always open at Mrs Macks
But she’ll do you to within an inch of your life
And the grave you dig is a minute too big
But you’re too proud to beg and you’re too poor to give
So you OD on the women and the fags and the drink
And the drugs that make you feel like you don’t have to think
Nobody ever asks you how you feel
And dying for a living wasn’t part of the deal
It wasn’t part of the deal
Mister Smith, or Jones
What’s your name, can you explain
Just who you are?
Mister Smith, or Jones
Everybody’s waiting for you to say
Mister Smith, or Jones
Baddendoo baa baa