Folk Singer

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As I walk these narrow streets
Where a million passin' feet
Have trod before me
With my guitar in my hand
Suddenly I realize
Nobody knows me
Where yesterday the multitudes
Screamed and cried my name out
For a song
Now the streets are empty
And the crowds
They've all gone home

With the rain on my face
There's no place where I belong
And my whole life consists
Of a story, of a poem, and a song
Now the truths I've tried to tell you
Are as distant as the moon
Born a hundred years too late
Two hundred years too soon
I'm a child of the sage
Lost in the pages of a book
But when I'm dust and clay
Will other people stop and take a look
And will they marvel
At the miracles I performed
And to the heights I aspired
Or will they tear the pages from the book
To light a fire
With the rain on my face
There's no place where I belong

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