One man hobo band scratching his whisky-ed words at the microphone.
He's thumping at his suitcase for a kick
And got a jangly tambo for the snare,
Dirty, bluesy ax with f-holes a hundred-fifty years older than his jeans
And a Gibson humbucker rattling against his side.
As he claws at the strings like a gritty freight train coming down the tracks,
I find myself thinking:
If only I had his voice, if only I had his groove.
But I only have the things I have,
Which includes no whisky, and no grime.
Not to mention I'm asleep by ten most nights.
I can only hope that the world needs us both,
And everyone else as well.
Call it faith or blindness, either way I don't know what else to do,
So I'll keep writing my little words, and sing when I can.