He stopped me at the curb and asked if I spoke any French When I asked what did he think it looked like through a teeth clench He asked if we could move this to a bench He’d come up from Africa looking for a paycheck But nothing was coming until Friday for this trek And as you can see I’m starting to look like a wreck I have nothing to eat and you can see it on my neck If you can take me into the phone store You’ll’ve done one thing right helping a troubadour
At nine in the morning he opens up an Irish beer He’s not afraid of rejection, an unkind word or jeer He reaches into his pocket and hits a button Out of his jacket comes out a sound that’s clear The beat and the soul of the singer said reggae I tried to follow along and wanted to stay But by the blinking light I was swept away I wanted to be able to sing like that and shake the core But I’d never be on that level of a troubadour
He had a motorized device that he’d said made him fly He’d hit the roundabout with such speed he would terrify The cafe down the road had to put up with the public warnings The repeats every hour made the whole village stupify He walked up the mountain to see nothing on the pad He knew even conservatives hate bankers and would help you put a want ad Of course you have to be careful as to just how they’d word it If you understand it properly you’ll see they’re ready for war And would sweep the poor right into camps like the troubadour
He finds his spot somewhere in the corner of town Somewhere people won’t wag their finger and wear a frown The bridge haunts where the stars should be He should have found a way to sleep facedown When the ones that had had too much of the night came by They were joking and lying about their accomplishments And when the foot hit the puddle it was all accidents Just like when the wealthy must crucify their accountants His eyes went open wide like when he was on accelerants When he was back to his resting place it was another encore Such is the life on the discontented involuntary troubadour
He would hang around the front of the tobacco shop For most the goods inside weren’t good enough to stop Everyone that’d give him the right nudge would be followed He’d waltz like he was going to rob the police station I don’t live in a big mansion like the city cop Who walks with his hands around his belt as if he’s the Lord Bumping up to all the fanciest dinners no one else could ever afford If you ever got a peek at the bill boy you’d be floored He’d make ‘em throw parades on holidays as if he is adored But when you arrest the town prophet that’s your reward The mumbling of the peasant machinery class remains ignored The boat’s been dismantled for parts and gets to stay ashore Never having to take back home the rather lonesome troubadour
