Fell down from new haven.
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To an empire cityscape.
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Someone asked him for directions.
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He would always know the way.
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Offer you his raincoat.
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Let you hide under his hat.
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If you can't walk from whiskey.
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He'll just throw you on his back.
|
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And then away you'll go.
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Through the crowd gathered below.
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To the spinning wheels.
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Of your mobile home.
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And he'll watch you sleep.
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Like a guardian angel.
|
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Stays inside the music.
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Sometimes steps outside the law.
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Always in the name of justice.
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Still believes in the lost cause.
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Distract you with a story.
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Always tries to make you laugh.
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He brings people together.
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Like Gertrude Stein and Mama Cass.
|
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And he says, "My friends are yours,
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This town's full of open doors
|
To the sold-out shows,
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Eighth bungalows,
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And the lonesome smokes,
|
In this tiny studio."
|
|
Always finds a muse.
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Everywhere he goes.
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Whether it's the blues.
|
Or some abandoned showtune.
|
|
Learned how to be selfless,
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How to love what wasn't there,
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But never dwell upon it.
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Just embrace what's everywhere.
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People busking in the subway.
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Mc's freestyle in the park.
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Heard a kid from martha's vineyard,
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Made him turn around his car.
|
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And away he goes
|
To the local radio
|
Saying, "What's that sound?
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I'd like to know,
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And this might sound strange,
|
But I just can't let it go."
|
|
Guess every sinner needs a saint.
|
Guess every sinner needs a saint.
|
Guess every sinner needs a saint.
|
Says everybody is the same.
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|
-----------------
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The Ballad Of Sean Foley
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| Maria Taylor |
