He sits on the street, owns none but a guitar,
And a knapsack, the clothes on his back,
And a few dimes here and there.
He won’t take handouts, won’t play that game,
He doesn’t want sympathy, not pity,
But no one’s really aware.
He lives this way, and wants to,
With companion shoes, familiar blues,
And what’s the world to care?
He knows they judge him, the “higher-ups,”
They don’t understand, can’t comprehend,
That this is how he wants to fare.
He has no voice, and no words to speak,
Only wants to give, and likes to live
On that market square.
