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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
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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