Busking Vagabond - Daniel Kahn, Vanya Zhuk

This busking vagabond

Is standing on the corner

Trumpet on his tongue

He’s only passing through

You’re not the one he loves

This God-forsaken hoarder

Wake up and smell the brew

And hold me close to you

He’s got a room downtown

Some fleabag by the station

A pillow and a bed

A window with no view

How heavily he sighs

In steamy perspiration

His melody is blue

But I, my love, love you

He trumpets out a hymn

As if to blow a gasket!

He trumpets out a cough

He trumpets out his spew

His fate is plain to see

Collected in his basket

But he does not love you

And I, my love, I do

I know in better days

I’ll wear a whiter collar

And like some golden leaf

I’ll circle through the blue

But isn’t it a shame

To weigh the world in dollars?

Oh, would that it would do

To value only you

But you won’t be seduced

With money, or with dresses

This busking vagabond

And every tune he blew

Is worthier to you

Than all the world possesses

For fate, by fate, is fate

And all that fate can do