Young Agent Jones: Music & Lyrics

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Hey, wait, a late, great fake
You draw him on a plate
You move out to L. A.
Franklin Mint buys you steak
For a plate

And you work in the morning, the evening
Your fingers are twitching
Your phone calls are bitching
Your eyeballs are slipping
And no one can eat off
Mikhail Baryshnikov
And no one could care less
For Andre the Giant in a dress
When you finally pick a winner
They take you out and buy you dinner
For a plate

Your work and livelihood
An art form covered by food
West Coast, San Andreas fault
Your plates fall off of the wall
You lose five out of six
Due to plate tectonics
You blame God for his tricks
'Til it makes you sick
Real sick

And you freak out all morning and evening
Your fingers are slipping
Your phone calls are bitching
Your eyeballs are twitching
And no one could blame you
The fault line was overdue
So you overhaul and brace the wall
And hide your plates in pillows
You're feverish, you lose it
You dynamite the whole place to hell

And now you make license plates in jail