Daily walks would lead me down
The tourist laden streets
Where people from all walks of life
Would congregate and meet
Buskers, singers, ne'er do wells
Would work throughout the throngs
But in back of Giannis restaurant
Sat an old man sharing songs
He didn't sing so much as talk
His voice was hoarse with age
But a milk box and an orange crate
Were his table, chair and stage
His instrument, an old guitar
Scarred, battle worn and black
His guitar strap was as old as he
An old potato sack
He sat and played to nobody
He just let the words be there
His audience could be a hundred deep
Sometimes it could be air
His music was his lifes blood
It was everything he had
So he shared it with the people
And the people....they were glad
The tourists, stayed away though
They were more attracted by the flair
Of the buskers and the jugglers
Not this man who wasn't there
He never left to join the crowd
And to sell his songs to those
Who really wanted nothing more
Than to hear some manufactured prose
The people who he played to
Were just others from the street
They worked the bars and restaurants
And at night they'd find a seat
In front of this old bluesman
Sitting by his orange box
Playing his guitar by candle light
Taking in his songs and talks
He sang songs from the heart, I guess
About those who'd he'd met
He'd sing about a dozen songs
That would constitue a set
Then he'd open up his silver flask
And ******* two gulps down
"This here's just my medicine"
"My past lives just to drown"
He sang of Truck Stop Beauty Queens
And of Walks out in the park
He sang of people living life
Not just hiding in the dark
He sang of things so real you'd see
Their pictures in your mind
He'd sing of places and of things
That others would not find
But tourists, they just stayed away
Near the buskers blowing fire
While yards away this old man sat
Just like an old town cryer
His audience would leave a bit
of change for their free show
He never asked for anything
For this was his row to ***
At two though when the street shut down
He closed his show down too
But he always had an extra song
A special one for you
His music came from in his heart
He shared it without fear
For once it left his throat it was
A sound that was so dear
The tourists went to hotels
Once the buskers all went home
But he just moved his crate and box
He slept out here alone
He sang his songs of characters
Who helped make us his life
His words were sometimes gentle
While others cut you like a knife
His world was just that orange crate
And his music helped unfurl
The melodies in this mans mind
It helped him share his world
He knew some things and people that
Would take rather than give
He sang about the street people
Because among them he did live
His home was just a cardboard box
Behind Giannis bar
And if you want to see a real good show
You don't have to go far
It's just a little beaten path
Away from tourist fare
Where this little, old, shy
Bluesman sings to hundreds or the air..
May 4, 2012
May 4, 2012 at 12:13 PM UTC
Daily walks would lead me down
The tourist laden streets
Where people from all walks of life
Would congregate and meet
Buskers, singers, ne'er do wells
Would work throughout the throngs
But in back of Giannis restaurant
Sat an old man sharing songs
He didn't sing so much as talk
His voice was hoarse with age
But a milk box and an orange crate
Were his table, chair and stage
His instrument, an old guitar
Scarred, battle worn and black
His guitar strap was as old as he
An old potato sack
He sat and played to nobody
He just let the words be there
His audience could be a hundred deep
Sometimes it could be air
His music was his lifes blood
It was everything he had
So he shared it with the people
And the people....they were glad
The tourists, stayed away though
They were more attracted by the flair
Of the buskers and the jugglers
Not this man who wasn't there
He never left to join the crowd
And to sell his songs to those
Who really wanted nothing more
Than to hear some manufactured prose
The people who he played to
Were just others from the street
They worked the bars and restaurants
And at night they'd find a seat
In front of this old bluesman
Sitting by his orange box
Playing his guitar by candle light
Taking in his songs and talks
He sang songs from the heart, I guess
About those who'd he'd met
He'd sing about a dozen songs
That would constitue a set
Then he'd open up his silver flask
And ******* two gulps down
"This here's just my medicine"
"My past lives just to drown"
He sang of Truck Stop Beauty Queens
And of Walks out in the park
He sang of people living life
Not just hiding in the dark
He sang of things so real you'd see
Their pictures in your mind
He'd sing of places and of things
That others would not find
But tourists, they just stayed away
Near the buskers blowing fire
While yards away this old man sat
Just like an old town cryer
His audience would leave a bit
of change for their free show
He never asked for anything
For this was his row to ***
At two though when the street shut down
He closed his show down too
But he always had an extra song
A special one for you
His music came from in his heart
He shared it without fear
For once it left his throat it was
A sound that was so dear
The tourists went to hotels
Once the buskers all went home
But he just moved his crate and box
He slept out here alone
He sang his songs of characters
Who helped make us his life
His words were sometimes gentle
While others cut you like a knife
His world was just that orange crate
And his music helped unfurl
The melodies in this mans mind
It helped him share his world
He knew some things and people that
Would take rather than give
He sang about the street people
Because among them he did live
His home was just a cardboard box
Behind Giannis bar
And if you want to see a real good show
You don't have to go far
It's just a little beaten path
Away from tourist fare
Where this little, old, shy
Bluesman sings to hundreds or the air..
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