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.