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