Troubadour, hand on heart
He swears to God, "like hell I'm not,
Just another playing twenty-one."
When every wall is another wound to guard
He'll be there, hands above
cursing his luck, saying "Something's off."
Troubadour, 'course he knows
With the to and fro, tomorrow'll show
Yet in every hour coveting oxen
The question stands, "where's mine at?"
Lord I know as time has owed,
In the ebb and flow, tomorrow'll show."
Troubadour, child I know,
Keep your wits about you
And your thoughts upon the road
Wounded or down we're never quite sound
But our failure's more than worth the price
Forget yourself, kid, don't you pout
Don't give in, don't tap out
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