Mr. Funny Man
It was about 10:00 on University Avenue.
A man walks up, says “I could use someone to talk to.”
He said, “I played mandolin in Ireland ’til I was 18;
if you’d fought in the war, you’d know what I mean.”
He sings me a song screaming, “Take me home.”
He says his soul’s tired and he just wants to go.
I know what he means cause my soul’s tired too
and he remind me of a man that I once knew.
Mr. Funny Man walks in the room.
Everybody waits in silence wondering what he’s gonna do,
saying, “Tell me a joke, yeah make me laugh.
We we’re talking about real life until you came back.”
And he stands in the corner; doesn’t know where to start.
His eyes are smiling but he’s got tears in his heart.
They’re laughing so hard that they’re rolling on the floor
when he says, “I don’t joke anymore.”
—I don’t joke anymore.
I was born in Williamsburg and I still remember Gloucester—
there’s a dark room and a fireplace; in my dreams I never lost it.
It was less than two years before we moved away,
my parents packed the car and drove us across the Chesapeake Bay.
Now I wait on the night but doesn’t everyone?
And I can’t stand the day cause I can’t stand the sun.
I don’t really care I could leave this behind,
I don’t ever say what I want to most the time
and now I’m writing songs about myself with other names in third person and do
you think it’s funny?
Making strange faces and sticking out my tongue and man ain’t it funny?
Somebody’s throwing beer bottles from the porch,
somebody’s lying in bed just trying to stay the course,
somebody’s so different when he’s shut up inside,
and somebody’s telling jokes just to keep from crying.
He says, “Those that know me don’t know me well.”
Yeah, those that know me don’t know me well.