"Mr. Jackson's Got Nothing To Do" lyrics

Now he lays on his bed, in his undershirt suit
With his newspaper tie, and his foam rubber boots
With his book of dirty pictures, he is searching for the truth

Mr. Jackson's got nothing to do

Now he sits in the swing, when the street turns blue
Nods at the policemen, doing it too
And yawns when the world comes galloping through

Mr. Jackson's got nothing to do

Now I pass by his door, and I look in his room
It's half past three, and it's the last week in June
The linoleum's bare, except for his shoes

Mr. Jackson's got nothing to do

Remember Mr. Jackson, I know that you do
With his gold-plated lighter that was just like new
And Saturday night he wore his wingtip shoes

Mr. Jackson's got nothing to do

Now he lays on his bed, in his undershirt suit
With his newspaper tie, and his foam rubber boots
With his book of dirty pictures, he is searching for the truth

Mr. Jackson's got nothing to do