Folk Singer

As I walk these narrow streets where a million passin′ feet've trod before me
With my guitar in my hand, suddenly I realize nobody knows me
Where yesterday the multitudes screamed and cried my name out for a song
Now the streets are empty, and the crowds they′ve all gone home

With the rain on my face, there's no place where I belong
And my whole life consists of a story, a poem, and a song
Now the truths I've tried to tell you are as distant as the moon
Born a hundred years too late, two hundred years too soon

I′m a child of this age, locked in the pages of a book
But when I′m dust and clay, will other people stop to take a look?
And will they marvel at the miracles I performed and to the heights I aspired
Or will they tear the pages from the book to light a fire?

With the rain on my face, there's no place where I belong