Folk Singer

As I walk these narrow streets where a million passin' feet've 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, 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 this age, locked in the pages of a book

But when I'm dust and clay, will other people stop to 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