surrounded by secada screams
summer screens riddled with holes
a million moths have lost the moon
and found his room he’s been cooking on coals
got here on a tornado
rode it steady as a train
tonight he’s putting on a show
and I’ll tell you why he don’t complain
cause liz and emmy, liz and emmy
sweet hearts are working at the bar tonight
liz and emmy, liz and emmy, o they treat him right
folksinger in a beat box town
can get slowed down and bound by blues
his shack shudders in the wind
and his little poems pay their dues
in the dark writing lines of light
bumming change from his morning muse
not thinking of his piece of the pie
he’ll never die, he’s got nothing to lose
disappearing sleight of hand
returning home with his pockets full
feeling like a folksinger, feeling like a man
feeling like he did what he came here for
and it’s not because of the songs he sang
although they rang out and the room sang along
you’d think it was the tips he made
or how he played, but you’d be wrong.