The Musician

	He sat in the grass, under a big oak tree, 
	nearly as close, as you are to me, 

	He looked sorta young, but he had age in his eye, 
	and he played for the people, as they walked by,

	So soft at first, he could barely be heard, 
	more than a whisper, but, less than a bird,

	his long, blond hair, was shot with gray,
	he ignored the crowd, and continued to play,

	it didn't take long, for the group to grow,
	larger but quiter, because he sang so low,

	he played for a while, some real old blues, 
	about love lost, and nothing to lose, 

	besides the guitar, he hadn't much stuff,
	I guess his burden of blues, was heavy enough,

	he was lost to the world, all on his on,
	the crowd just waitin', for one more song.	
	
	he stopped and took an old rag, wet with sweat, 
	and wiped it real gentle, over the fret. 

	he put it away, and tightened one string, 
	strummed one time, and continued to sing.

	He sang about a valley, as dark as they get, 
	the silence was total, and every eye wet,

	who knows how long, we sat in that park, 
	and all too soon, it began to get dark,

	finally he stopped, and he got up real slow,
	he said thanks for listenin', but I've gotta go,

	you're the best crowd, I ever played,
	I love to sing, so I'm glad you stayed, 

	I don't play much, but thats just because, 
	while I love to play, I hate the applause.

	the crowd without a word, passed a hat, 
	it was filled to the brim, when they passed it back, 

	he gave a deep bow, 'n put it all in his shirt, 
	and walked away dragging, his guitar in the dirt. 
			s((im 5/11/03


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