Troubador

The fog comes in and out with the tides like my pocket watch

It doesn't keep the time spitting smoke combustion from

Foreign cars choking my family history with the bloody wars

Troubador, what's the score? standing in line with the

Tenderloin whores troubador, take a fucking tour 'cause my

Eyes are welling up from the last g-chord

Break-time satisfies with tar and nicotine and the church bells

Afternoon licks ring of blasphemy true to filth and form bus

And trolley off the track and line lunch time whistles stop the

Workers but not the troubador's crime the pub patrons spend

Their wages in mumbled bouts the grub merchants chewed the fat then chewed

You out pedestrian, night journeyment

Pass your separate ways when you're eating from the piss

Trough they're all pissing in your plate troubador, less is more

Is it in your heart to give up the floor troubafor, pissed and

Poor tell me something I haven't heard before