Harp
Written November 17, 2013
Fields of flowers
Rest around our heads
While photos of blood
Surround our beds
On pedestals we stand
Preaching to the world
Something foretold
By heretics in white
And neighbors in black
Who claim they already knew that
Rain beats down on my roof
To the tune of Duke Ellington
And to the Scat Man we dance
It's all we have left in this world
Penniless pockets
Play the vagabond game
While the vultures in Eden
Circle the insane
Who hear the angels sing
Refrains and quatrains
Who can be a spokesman
For those who cannot speak
A preacher for the downtrodden
A dollar dropped at hand
For the bum on Main and Port
Traveling through strife
No child or wife
To dedicate his life
No hope to beat his drum
No harp for strings he's strung
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