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A Midnight Troubadour


I’m a lonely troubadour,
and I play my songs at midnight,
beneath the blinking lights,
when the streets are empty,
and the wind blows cold,
when there is no one to hold,
or listen to my songs,
or to sing along,
or tell me right from wrong.

My songs are for
the political prisoners,
bound up in jail,
bound by iron chains,
without any hope
of getting bail.

They are for the children
that are lost in the rain,
and going hungry,
and for all those
that are now
crying out for freedom.

I am a lost troubadour
singing in a box car
in a rail yard
waiting for a train,
to be going nowhere,
and my songs are
for the hungry,
the naked,
the homeless
for the hobos
that are singing with me.

Mr. engineer,
hiding behind
your priestly clothes
and a saintly smile,
please hook up
the boxcar to a train,
give us an umbrella
to keep us from the rain,
and some wood
to keep us from the cold.

If you do,
I’ll play a song for you,
until my guitar
strings are broken,
and my fingers
start bleeding,
a few kind words
are all that I am needing.

I am a lost troubadour
born out of war,
and other bitter places.
From lying
I will refrain
if it will help me
catch a train
to the southland,
or where oranges grow,
or keep me from
the acid rain,
or help me in my dreaming.

I’ll play my songs for you,
if you promise
not to be blue,
so please be true,
to yourself,
even if you
must lie to others.

I’ll play my songs
in the rain,
or on the train,
or on the tracks,
that lead to the shacks
by the river,
or on the way
to my tombstone.
I’m a lonely troubadour,
and I play my songs at midnight,
beneath the blinking lights,
when the streets are empty,
and the wind blows cold,
when there is no one to hold,
or listen to my songs,
or to sing along,
or tell me right from wrong.

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