When the street-musician, takes-up
Strategically between the SUPERDRUG and the I.G.A.,
When he starts strumming, and your heart's humming,
Then you toss a coin as you pass along and the busker starts his day.
With his case wide open, the busker's hoping,
The weatherman's predictions will prove wrong just this one time,
Smiled-at by shoppers, moved-on by coppers,
He measures his existence by the thickness of a dime.
It's a minimum wage, slim chance or none, but there's no
Can hold a man who'd rather sing his songs upon the run.
When he was younger, and felt the hunger,
He figured playing rock'n'roll was where the future lay,
But he's grown bolder, as he's grown older,
Now he's happy to be on the street, going his own way.
From a park in Stockholm, to a square in Boston,
On the boulevards of Paris or the docks of Baltimore,
Through the streets of London, the songs are homespun,
And the story's told around the world by the sidewalk troubadour.