The Last Organ Grinder
The Last Organ Grinder
Paris the city of lovers with its promenade of love
Where young men whisper words of whimsy
Whilst she searches clouds above.
My cap sits upon the floor a short way from the art
Where a red haired man cleans his brush
In a jar propped on his cart.
I turn the wheel until the sound of music fills the air
A carousel of chords dance out I pray they give a care.
For I have lost my own true love amongst the years I share
Now stand alone with memories, my self-ness showing bare.
For all the nights of passion, for all the heartbeat play
I could not cease my loving need to love them all the day
Each one that shone, shone for me and in its light I too could be
An artisan, a poet, a well shod gallantee
So I turn the wheel until the sound of music fills the air
A carousel of chords dance out I pray they give a care.
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