The Singer
--music and lyrics copyright (C) 1985 by Ernest Clark

!lj <first draft approx. 5/15/85>
!lj <current draft 11/9/85>

The youngster pulled out his guitar long ago,
His pockets were empty, his belly also,
His playing was clumsy, his fingers were slow,
And he found very quickly that it just wouldn't go.
  For some there laughed, and some there cried,
  And the young lad wished he could run and hide.
  Yes, some there laughed, and some there cried,
  And the poor boy really would have rather died.


He practiced in private, to cover up his shame,
He played out his feelings, and the songs weren't the same,
Of life meant for living, and not just as a game,
And once he didn't need them, an audience came.
  And some there laughed, and some there cried,
  And some felt feelings they had long denied.
  And some there laughed, and some there cried,
  And the fame of the singer spread far and wide.


For much of a century he saw many lands,
Delighting all comers with his voice and his hands,
But steady the toll of eternity's sands:
One day he no longer met the music's demands.
  And some there laughed, and some there cried,
  At the wreck of a talent which the years denied.
  And some there laughed, and some there cried,
  And he knew it was over, time to sit by the side.


He limped off the stage and it all seemed so wrong;
So a young lad scurried up, healthy and strong,
Who chose an old stand-by, start 'em singing along,
To the old man's secret glory, for he'd written that song.
  And some there laughed, and some there cried,
  And some felt feelings they had long denied,
  And some there laughed, and some there cried,
  At the beauty of the words spread far and wide.


  And still we laugh, and still we cry,
  At the power of words from long gone by,
  And still we laugh, and still we cry,
  For the best we do can never die.