He's a bar room philosopher, a  poet with an empty glass, a master of the unpaid laugh,  a true character. 

 

He's got shuffling feet and waving hands,  entertaining as he stands, eyeing up the optics on the corner of the bar.

 

He loves a drink and a smoke, tells his story with a joke.

 

Busking on the streets of town, singing to an unfamiliar crowd, singing all the songs you know, well he strum, strum , strums along.

 

He's  an artist without his paints, drawing from the welfare state, his last master piece was a fortnight ago, expected to draw again tomorrow. 

 

And he etches his signature on a page, signs a autograph for a wage.

 

He's the  street trader with a market stall, his name is familiar as his call, he sells proverbs and sound advice, it's all good stuff and cheap at the price.

 

PerformIing in life every day, he's acting his part as if in a play, a wordsmith and a musician to, he sings lifes songs just for you.

 

Wont you sing sing sing along, sing sing sing along, wont you sing sing sing along.