MS TROUBADOUR

MS TROUBADOUR

She sits on the courthouse steps

Playing songs she herself wrote

Every word she sings she means

Her heart there in every note.

She sings of the pain she sees

In the world that passes by.

She sings to you and to me

Her music makes you cry.

 

(She sings)

We who have so much

Give little to the others.

We let our children starve

And do not help the mothers

And the fathers who work

To make their daily bread

While rich people won’t help

Keep a house over their heads.

She manages to choose chords

That sing of lonely suffering.

Her angelic voice softens up

The accusations she’s uttering.

She tells of squandered glory

In the wasting of our lives

While the overfed rich people

Go home to their gilded wives.

 

(She sings)

We who have so much

Give little to the others.

We let our children starve

And do not help the mothers

And the fathers who work

To make their daily bread

While rich people won’t help

Keep a house over their heads.

Few listen to the troubadour

Who tells us all our name.

They may drop in a penny

To soften up their shame.

But every day they pass her

And soon they do not hear

The wisdom in her lyrics.

They do not feel the fear.

 

(She sings)

We who have so much

Give little to the others.

We let our children starve

And do not help the mothers

And the fathers who work

To make their daily bread

While rich people won’t help

Keep a house over their heads.

Brent Kincaid

4/18/2015

(Image from www.zotzinguitarlessons.com)

 

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