The Pilgrim — Chapter 33

See him wasted on the sidewalk in his jacket and his jeans,
Wearin’ yesterday’s misfortunes like a smile--
Once he had a future full of money, love, and dreams,
Which he spent like they was goin’ outa style--
And he keeps right on a’changin’ for the better or the worse,
Searchin’ for a shrine he’s never found--
Never knowin’ if believin’ is a blessin’ or a curse,
Or if the goin’ up was worth the comin’ down--

Chorus:
He’s a poet, he’s a picker--
He’s a prophet, he’s a pusher--
He’s a pilgrim and a preacher, and a problem when he’s stoned--
He’s a walkin’ contradiction, partly truth and partly fiction,
Takin’ ev’ry wrong direction on his lonely way back home.

He has tasted good and evil in your bedrooms and your bars,
And he’s traded in tomorrow for today--
Runnin’ from his devils, lord, and reachin’ for the stars,
And losin’ all he’s loved along the way--
But if this world keeps right on turnin’ for the better or the worse,
And all he ever gets is older and around--
>from the rockin’ of the cradle to the rollin’ of the hearse,
The goin’ up was worth the comin’ down--

Chorus:
He’s a poet, he’s a picker--
He’s a prophet, he’s a pusher--
He’s a pilgrim and a preacher, and a problem when he’s stoned--
He’s a walkin’ contradiction, partly truth and partly fiction,
Takin’ ev’ry wrong direction on his lonely way back home.
There’s a lotta wrong directions on that lonely way back home.

Похожие новости.

I was tryin' to cross the street When I tripped and spilled my coffee On a man who yelled at me And then walked off in a hurry Now he's gonna be late for

Put on your black dress baby, and put your hair up right There's a party way down in Factory Town tonight I'll be going down there if you need a ride Come on,

Дело было в Москве по весне Впрочем может совсем не в Москве Только двор был как двор И играла в войну детвора И гуляли мы там до зари И купались в лучах сизари И жила как

Мы ехали шагом, Мы мчались в боях, И «Яблочко»-песню Держали в зубах. Ах, песенку эту Доныне хранит Трава молодая — Степной малахит. Но песню иную О дальней земле Возил мой приятель С собою в седле. Он пел, озирая Родные края: «Гренада, Гренада, Гренада моя!» Он пел,

Луч луны упал на ваш портрет, Милый друг давно забытых лет. И во мгле как будто ожил он, И на миг смешались явь и сон. Я смотрел, не отрывая глаз. Я мечтал, я вспоминал о