You walk into the room with your pencil in your hand,
See somebody naked, you say, "Who's that man?"
You try so hard, but you don't understand
What you're gonna say when you get home
'Cause something is happening and you don't know what it is, do you, Mr. Jones?
You raise up your head, say, "Is this where it is?"
Somebody points to you and says, "It's his."
You say, "What's mine?" Someone else says, "Where what is?"
You say, "Oh, my God, am I here all alone?"
But, something is happening and you don't know what it is, do you, Mr. Jones?
You hand in your ticket to go see the geek,
Who walks up to you when he hears you speak,
Says, "How does it feel to be such a freak?"
You say, "Impossible!" as he hands you the bone.
And something is happening, but you don't know what it is, do you, Mr. Jones?
You have many contacts all among the lumberjacks
To get you facts when someone attacks your imagination.
No one has any respect, anyway they expect
You to give your check to tax-deductible charity organizations.
You've been with professors, they've all liked your looks,
With great lawyers you've discussed lepers and crooks,
You've been through all of F. Scott Fitzgerald's books,
You're very well-read, it's well-known.
But still something's happening and you don't know what it is, do you, Mr. Jones?
You crawl into the room like a camel and you frown,
Put your eyes in your pocket and your nose in the ground.
There ought to be a law against you coming around,
You should be made to be wearing a telephone
'Cause something is happening and you don't know what it is, do you, Mr. Jones?