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The Prophet of the Street

hazenk's picture
IWM# 1179

IWM serial ID: 01179

(C)Traffic signs and (Am)traveling mimes
(F)Wading through a concrete (C)war
(C)Man-made air, (Am)industrial despair
(F)The mimes could breathe no (G)more
And the (F)battle scars from his (G)weathered past
Years of (C)decadence (C/B)and (Am)effete
He (F)tells the tale of the (G)rise and fall
Of the (F)prophet (G)of the (C)street
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He took to the asphalt, suitcase in hand
And a six-string tied to his back
His thumb was his guide, naive and bright-eyed
A horizon-backed cul-de-sac
He arrived in the Village looking for space
Amongst the 'niks on the beat
It would not take long to find his place
As the prophet of the street
-----------------------------------------------
At night he would sit with pen in hand
A 'Lucky' burned in the bowl
A bottle of red danced in his head
The ink: the blood of his soul
And the concerns of the day seemed to fill each page
The message profound and complete
He's a poet, an artist, a troubadour
He’s a prophet of the street
------------------------------------------------
He sat on McDougal with a box made of wood
And a hat that served as his bank
The concrete was cold, but "the music" he was told
Would blanket his blood-filled tank
And his fingers caressed her ebony neck
A symphony cut through the heat
The master of his concrete domain
He's the prophet of the street
--------------------------------------------------
A sidewalk shepherd, a minister of verse
His pasture - the urban frontier
His flocks would parade around his stringed serenade
Intoxicating and sincere
And his flocks they grew as his sermons took wind
His concrete stage obsolete
A soon-to-be soldier of fortune
And a fond farewell to the street
---------------------------------------------------
He took to the stage, high above the crowd
His sermons harmonious and wise
His rise meteoric, lavish and historic
A calamity in disguise
For the pressures of fame and the demands of the game
A downfall dark and discrete
Milk became the blood of his soul
And his home a cardboard retreat
----------------------------------------------------
And the traveling mimes are showing signs
Of life in a concrete war
And the man made air, left his lungs in despair
The prophet could sing no more
And the battle scars from his weathered past
Left a soldier humbled in defeat
The time had come to say good-bye
To the prophet of the street

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