Play on Beggar Man
How we that metro to work in DC, take for granted the street performers that grace us with their notes of beauty and desperation each morning. I wrote this for the poor that give something so sweet when they have nothing.
Play on Beggar Man
Play on beggar man, your trumpet’s notes weaving in between the sidewalk traffic
Let your horn sing songs of man’s will to survive
Abe Lincoln taps his feet while the monument sways in the melodic breeze
Yours is a tune none care to know, yet change dances from their hands into an empty case
Oh the sweet harmonious caressing of strangers’ backs as they face the morning grind
Negating the daily drudgery of the metro’s sound of despair with your solo symphony
Be prepared to be unacknowledged by those who pass by, but know they hear your soul
Emptying into their conscience as they try, but cannot deny being thankful for their fortune
Go into the early morning with yearning notes ricocheting off of your pressed, buttoned down shirts
Get lost from the sun inside of your concrete caves, as like bats you avoid the beauty of the day
Alas, the chapped lips of the beggar man play on through the morning, his greased hair
Resting on his forehead, tattered rags adorning his body also sway in the melodic breeze
Mixing what is left of his American dream crushed spirit, with spit and symphonic skill
Always playing his soul’s song for spare change, selling his talent to survive
Nothing in this world is free, not even the sweet notes from a beggar man in the morning.
