The old street musician |
In the streets of old Paris grows a man who used to be |
Rich and famous in his day because of songs that he would play |
Now he walks from street to street, rags for shoes upon his feet |
But the words that he wrote down still get played from town to town |
|
I can hear the song you're singing, will it ever die? |
Though you're old and they don't know you when you pass them by |
Still, the songs you wrote are bringing joy to one and all |
You hear them in the streets and squares and subways and up the stairs |
Your melodies will always be a happy lasting memory |
|
So as you retire to bed, close your eyes and rest your head |
You can hear the sound of feet on the pavement, in the street |
When he rests, you never know, he'll just sing a song and go |
Throw a penny, if you can, to the old man singing there |
|
I can hear the song you're singing, will it ever die? |
Though you're old and they don't know you when you pass them by |
Still, the songs you wrote are bringing joy to one and all |
You hear them in the streets and squares and subways and up the stairs |
Your melodies will always be a happy lasting memory |
|
I can hear the song you're singing, will it ever die? |
I can hear the song you're singing, will it ever die? |