When I was ten, I met a man who sailed the ocean far;
he came across from England with his suitcase and guitar.
He dug graves for a living, but no man was more alive.
His creed: to live, while others just survive.

Old Ben, he was a wanderer who roamed this country 'round
and wove his tales of travel into tapestries of sound.
The tune I borrowed from a song I loved to hear him play;
the words I wrote for Ben one yesterday.

Ben, ye bleedin' Briton, it's been many, many years
since your singing and your picking of the blues has reached my ears.
He dug graves for a living, but no man was more alive.
His creed: to live, while others just survive.

His music whispered magic with its pain and with its joy
and gently cast a spell upon this fourteen-year-old boy.
But as my life was starting, I saw Ben's life start to sour,
and watched him age a year for every hour.

It's hopeless and it's helpless when you just can't understand
how the bottle Ben was draining drained the magic of his hand.
When his voice took to creaking like an ancient barn-door hinge,
he took off on a desperation binge.

Ben, ye bleedin' Briton, it's been many, many years
since your singing and your picking of the blues has reached my ears.
You dug graves for a living, but no man was more alive.
Your creed: to live, while others just survive.

Some say you're in Nashville; others say you're in L.A.,
but if these words should find you, may they find that you're OK.
The tune I borrowed from a song I loved to hear you play;
the words I wrote for you one yesterday.

Ben, ye bleedin' Briton, it's been many, many years
since your singing and your picking of the blues has reached my ears.
You dug graves for a living, but no man was more alive.
Your creed to live...I hope it's still alive.