Ba badadada ba The sun's out in the city Ba badadada ba And everybody's on it Ba badadada ba Though the product's pretty It's en evident pity now That they don't want it No, they just don't want it Ladies and gentlemen I would like to introduce you To the tale of Fickle Fran Your local unofficial salesman Franny's not rich no, neither poor Sells knock-off clobber door to door Says winter's far too cold And the wages don't come near On a sunny prom he'll sell to masses Cheap handbags and fake sunglasses Like he's in a crackhouse And he's a dealer pushing gear Sets up a stall near where a band begins to play But Fran, he's living in ten years yesterday And as the bands sings Ba badadada ba The sun's out in the city Ba badadada ba And everybody's on it Ba badadada ba Though the product's pretty It's en evident pity now That they don't want it As the sun beats down and the beverages pour Fran pulls a frown because the game he once knew Ain't the same anymore Burning skin, pouring sweat The man's not sold an item yet He sighs "Life's getting harder now And this job's become a curse" Fran admits with heavy shame "Things went downhill since Bezos came And all these eastern websites Well they've made things even worse" Poor Fickle Francis Just won't admit defeat He now prays for winter To get back on his feet And as the band sings Ba badadada ba The sun's out in the city Ba badadada ba And everybody's on it Ba badadada ba Though the product's pretty It's en evident pity now That they don't want it So he tries a different door With claims of selling everything you need and more Says "I'm living with an eye on bailiffs after me" Still rather this than working in a factory Ba badadada ba The sun's out in the city Ba badadada ba The sun's out in the city Ba badadada ba The sun's out in the city Ba badadada ba The sun's out in the city Ba badadada ba The sun's out in the city Ba badadada ba And everybody's on it Ba badadada ba Though the product's pretty It's en evident pity now That they don't want it