The Troubadour

His voice had an edge as hard as his life, Like whiskey and asphalt, distilled; Face lined like a map of where all he'd been; A head full of dreams, unfulfilled. He played his three chords and versions of truth; His life spilling out in his song. As long as he had his guitar and heart, He figured he could do no wrong. Up on center stage, his face came alive, The music flowed through him like wine. He could shatter your heart and then heal it; With just a few words in a line. He played his three chords and versions of truth; His life spilling out in his song. As long as he had his guitar and heart, He figured he could do no wrong. He offered his tunes as gifts to the world And wrapped melodies with his love. And, although he lived simply, down to earth, He seemed as though sent from above. He played his three chords and versions of truth; His life spilling out in his song. As long as he had his guitar and heart, He figured he could do no wrong.