| Johnny walks down the main street
|
| With a briefcase in his hand
|
| He’s been working all day in a white collar job
|
| Which he was told was the promised land
|
| He kisses Mrs. Norma on the cheek
|
| And that’s his little son Sam
|
| But meanwhile we know at the back of his neck
|
| That Johnny would rather be dead
|
| But it doen’t bother anybody no more
|
| Life has closed the door
|
| Shame, shame, shame, shame, shame
|
| Jenny’s on the switchboard holding the line
|
| For a gentleman in Bombay
|
| She doesn’t have to bother listen to him
|
| 'Cause she doesn’t care what he says
|
| She cleans her nails with a paperclip
|
| And watches the clouds roll by
|
| And nobody seems to understand
|
| That there’s a tear in Jenny’s eye
|
| But it doen’t bother anybody no more
|
| Life has closed the door
|
| Shame, shame, shame, shame, shame
|
| But it doen’t bother anybody no more
|
| Life has closed the door
|
| Shame, shame, shame, shame, shame
|
| Jenny’s on the switchboard holding the line
|
| For a gentleman in Bombay
|
| She doesn’t have to bother listen to him
|
| 'Cause she doesn’t care what he says
|
| She cleans her nails with a paperclip
|
| And watches the clouds roll by
|
| And nobody seems to understand
|
| That there’s a tear in Jenny’s eye
|
| Jenny’s on the switchboard holding the line
|
| For a gentleman in Bombay
|
| She doesn’t have to bother listen to him
|
| 'Cause she doesn’t care what he says
|
| And Johnny walks down the main street
|
| With a briefcase in his hand
|
| He’s been working all day in a white collar job
|
| Which he was told was the promised land |