The People of the Street

In the big city of Chicago.

There are so many people you'll meet.

It seems that wherever I go.

I see people live out in the street.

I see the people that sleep outside there.

In the bitter Midwestern cold.

Too discouraged to say a prayer.

When they've seen hardships untold.

The dear people of Chicago.

Walk among us every day.

So share a smile and say hello.

As you pass them on your way.

I see Shorty, John, and Bonita.

On my way into work each day.

As I come out of Ogilvie Station.

They're begging to earn their pay.

Sometimes they might ask you for money.

What they really need is a friend.

A kind word, some conversation.

Will help them more in the end.

The dear people of Chicago.

Walk among us every day.

So share a smile and say hello.

As you pass them on your way.

The preacher man and the businessman.

Won't even look them in the eye.

They check their iPhones, see what they've planned.

They pass the street people by.

So don't throw your coins on the sidewalk.

Sit down at their level instead.

And ask them to tell you what it's like.

Not having a home or a bed.

The dear people of Chicago.

Walk among us every day.

So share a smile and say hello.

As you pass them on your way.

Carlos works in the drug store.

To send money to his family.

It was hard to find jobs in Mexico.

So he lived here in the tent city.

On the other side of the railroad line.

With a dozen people of the street.

They've seen their share of trials and hard times.
Just trying to get back on their feet.

Sunday Morning Blues

It's just another lazy Sunday,
So tired and feeling down.
Wasting the day until Monday,
In a coffee shop in town.
Jack Johnson on the radio.
Is adding to the mood.
You feel so tired and lonely.
To the sound of acoustic blues.

I've got the Sunday morning blues.
But it's a long road out of Wheaton.
You've heard a very sad piece of news.
But it's a lesson worth repeating.

I've got the Sunday morning blues.
But it's a long road out of Wheaton.
When you're tired of paying dues.
And the world is smiling in greeting.

Until the day comes to an end,
Sipping mint tea to pass the time.
You're wishing for an old friend,
A voice on the end of the line.

The work day will come so suddenly.
Sunday went by so fast.
Freedom is somewhere in the coffee,
But freedom never lasts.

I've got the Sunday morning blues.
But it's a long road out of Wheaton.
You've heard a very sad piece of news.
But it's a lesson worth repeating.

I've got the Sunday morning blues.
But it's a long road out of Wheaton.
When you're tired of paying dues.
And the world is smiling in greeting.

Feel the Sunday Morning Blues come washing over me.
Feel the Sunday Morning Blues as you're sipping your mint tea.

Feel the Sunday Morning Blues come fill the small town air.
Feel the Sunday Morning Blues and you just don't really care.

I've got the Sunday morning blues.
But it's a long road out of Wheaton.
You've heard a very sad piece of news.
But it's a lesson worth repeating.

I've got the Sunday morning blues.
But it's a long road out of Wheaton.
When you're tired of paying dues.
And the world is smiling in greeting.

The Road Less Travelled

I've been traveling on a northbound train.
I lost my ticket, stranded in the rain.
Walked to the depot, caught the last Greyhound.
I left Wyoming, Oregon bound.

The road less traveled, it never ends.
Alone and desperate, without any friends.
I keep on rambling, like a man possessed.
Fixing my eyes on the sun in the West.

I've stopped in a thousand cafes and bars.
I've walked for miles 'neath the Colorado stars.
One more cup of coffee, before I have to go.
I'm heading back east now, through the cold rain and snow.

The road less traveled, it never ends.
Dark and dusty, without any friends.
I feel the cold in my old denim vest.
Fixing my eyes on the sun in the West.

It seems tomorrow is just like yesterday.
So tired and weary, you've forgotten the way.
The heat of August is fading into fall.
And you forget why you're even traveling at all.

The road less traveled, it never ends.
Dark and dusty, without any friends.
I keep on rambling, like a man possessed.
Fixing my eyes on the sun in the West.

The road less traveled, it never ends.

On the road and making music with my friends.

That long white line, it keeps stretching on.

I'll grab my coat and my guitar and I'll be gone.

When The Music Comes Alive

Inside the piano there's a good vibration.
I'm not really sure where it's from.
Playing in the band is a sweet sensation.
The feelings will naturally come.

It was like a river glorious.
Like blood rushing to my head.
I took in the sounds of the forest.
I listened to what the man said.

When dawn turns the night into day.
You're tired and you've lost the way.
Look down to the valley below.
Hear the sound of the music grow.
It comes from within the heart.
Every sad harmony part.
Then it shifts into overdrive.
When the music comes alive.

I took what I heard and I wrote it all down.
I remembered what I had learned.
He robbed that king of his golden crown.
And the forest was totally burned.

I took my music from mines of Kentucky.
To the California coast.
I made it there safely, I guess I was lucky.
Coming back to the place I loved most.

When dawn turns the night into day.
You're tired and you've lost the way.
Look down to the valley below.
Hear the sound of the music grow.
It comes from within the heart.
Every sad harmony part.
Then it shifts into overdrive.
When the music comes alive.

I thought I heard a sweet bluebird singing.

A tale that was full of despair.

In the rain a distant bell was ringing.

The cold, iron sound was everywhere.

The freight train rolls across the countryside.

As the eagle begins to take flight.

I'm leaving Texas on the Fourth of July.

And the music will soar to new heights.

When dawn turns the night into day.
You're tired and you've lost the way.
Look down to the valley below.
Hear the sound of the music grow.
It comes from within the heart.
Every sad harmony part.
Then it shifts into overdrive.
When the music comes alive.

Girl From The North Country

Wandering through the North Country.
On a sunny Fourth of July.
I turned the corner down Center Street.
When something caught my eye.

She was a brown-eyed girl, so pretty.
She had ribbons in her hair.
She'd come in from Kansas City.
For the great North Country fair.

When you're out roaming in Wyoming, it's such a fine place to be.
Holding hands, walking and talking with the girl from the North Country.

I feel the cool North Country air.
Sending shivers down my spine.
And blowing through her long brown hair.
And the ribbons that did entwine.

I took her to a rodeo.
To a Cheyenne Indian dance.
Right until she had to go.
I thought I had a decent chance.

When you're out roaming in Wyoming, it's such a fine place to be.
Holding hands, walking and talking with the girl from the North Country.

But alas, it was not to be.
The sweet girl would never be mine.
Though she looked intently she could never see.
It was all that could keep me from crying.

Dancing through my lonely mind.
She's just a memory.
On a train back home, weeping all alone.
And longing for the North Country.

When you're out roaming in Wyoming, it's such a fine place to be.
Holding hands, walking and talking with the girl from the North Country.

The Prophet

A prophet of almighty God.
His quill was his guitar.
Each night he played and prophesied.
In a dirty Memphis bar.
He crafts a tune, the song is hewn.
From string and wood and spit.
The prophet sings, his voice it rings.
With a southern-sounding grit.

A poet of the highest order.
Knighted by the Queen.
But he was able to award her.
With a prize unseen.
The melody, it comes to me.
Finger-painting in the wilderness.
I hear his song, as it rolls along.
With a terrible loneliness.

The Lord Almighty in the sky.
Is pleased to hear his tune.
About the days in a time gone by.
Before the world came to ruin.
But when the Lord, gets really bored.
He calls the prophet home.
He has him play, for Him everyday.
And he nevermore will roam.

A prophet of almighty God.
His message was quite clear.
Each night he played and prophesied.
For all the people to hear.
The prophet's mind, one of a kind.
Can always find the right word.
He sings so well, from what I can tell.
And all the critics I've heard.

The Poet

The poet sat in the corner.

Drinking his coffee with cream.

Painting his latest masterpiece.

Describing his latest dream.

His canvas was spread on the table.

His imagination running wild.

He put into words when he was able.

All the memories that he had compiled.

There ain't no rest for the weary.

You always reap what you sow.

The poet's eyes they grow teary.

As he dreams of a time long ago.

The waitress is practicing politics.

As she brings him his third refill.

Even though he won't look at her.

She knows that she loves him still.

She brings him a bottle of cabernet.

The clock said a quarter past nine.

Her fault was her naiveté.

And his fault was drinking the wine.

There ain't no rest for the weary.

You always reap what you sow.

The poet's eyes they grow teary.

As he dreams of a time long ago.

The sailors are drinking whiskey.

Laughing and singing at the bar.

Their occupations are very risky.

But they've made it safely thus far.

He's hiding in lonely solitude.

Deep within his wandering thoughts.

As rowdy customers playing cards.

Are gambling and casting lots.

There ain't no rest for the weary.

You always reap what you sow.

The poet's eyes they grow teary.

As he dreams of a time long ago.

He digs into a stack of pancakes.

And a picturesque metaphor.

When a one-armed salty seadog.

Strolls right in through the door.

He looks out of place in the old saloon.

He's called captain redbeard by name.

His face is always clean-shaven.

But the poet can't say the same.

There ain't no rest for the weary.

You always reap what you sow.

The poet's eyes they grow teary.

As he dreams of a time long ago.

The stranger comes up to the poet.

He says he will rob him blind.

The poet has another character.

For the poem that is in his mind.

He gives him a leather wallet.

Filled with coins of silver and gold.

The stranger smiles in approval.

As the room becomes frightfully cold.

There ain't no rest for the weary.

You always reap what you sow.

The poet's eyes they grow teary.

As he dreams of a time long ago.

The sheriff walks into the barroom.

With a loaded six-gun in his hand.

The fastest draw in the North Country.

East and west of the Rio Grande.

The poet barely looks up at him.

He's crafting his latest tune.

The sheriff drags the sailor to prison.

As he stirs his coffee with a spoon.

There ain't no rest for the weary.

You always reap what you sow.

The poet's eyes they grow teary.

As he dreams of a time long ago.

The quill of the poet has stopped.

He admires his work for a time.

He takes one last sip of coffee.

Then pens the penultimate rhyme.

He sits back, admires his handiwork.

Puts a few silver coins on the bar.

Walks out with his scroll in hand.

And his dusty old Spanish guitar.

There ain't no rest for the weary.

You always reap what you sow.

The poet's eyes they grow teary.

As he dreams of a time long ago.

The Spectre at the Castle

I set out walking from my door not going anyplace.
I came upon a lofty castle rising to the sun.
I left the castle courtyard without leaving any trace.
Fearing for my very life, I then began to run.

Scheming demons dressed in kingly guise upon the wall.
Running swiftly, past the drawbridge, I covered my face.
'Till I couldn't see the beasts pursuing me at all.
I continued madly onward, on my hellbound race.

Angels floating, demons gloating.
Castles in the sand.
Spectres weeping, princes keeping.
Power in their hand.
Princes dreaming, maidens screaming.
They can't understand.
Spectres spinning, goblins grinning.
Playing in the band.

Castles in the sand and water in a half an hour.
See the ships go sailing through the treacherous abyss.
I sit in fear with demons near; I tremble and I cower.
My heart growing cold with fear at death's appealing kiss.

Sand runs through my face and comes out dripping from my ears.
Flight of goblins screeching howling blasts out of the lake.
Suddenly I saw the spectre realized my fears.
Slowly rising, paralyzing, saw it was a fake.

Angels floating, demons gloating.
Castles in the sand.
Spectres weeping, princes keeping.
Power in their hand.
Princes dreaming, maidens screaming.
They can't understand.
Spectres spinning, goblins grinning.
Playing in the band.

Frightened but enlightened by my harrowing ordeal.
The castle loomed foreboding on the English countryside.
To all the people who are willing, listen to my appeal.
Don't go near the haunted castle, remember how I tried.

I came back there in a year, saw the lights and smoke machines.
Spectres, angels, demons, goblins upon a projector.
I remember the first time that I saw these frightful scenes.
Witnessed in all its glory the haunting of the spectre.

Angels floating, demons gloating.
Castles in the sand.
Spectres weeping, princes keeping.
Power in their hand.
Princes dreaming, maidens screaming.
They can't understand.
Spectres spinning, goblins grinning.
Playing in the band.