Thursday, September 22, 2016

Off The Freight Train

In the nineteen fifties,
Entered into New York,
A young man wishing just to play guitar,
That music they called folk,

Because it told stories and captured hearts,
So what, it didn't sell?
You sing your soul, get paid if you're lucky,
Happy if you play well,

E'er in front of people or not at all,
Else there was no feelin',
He'd meet his idols and they'd ask his name,
He'd reply, 'Bob Dylan',
The song was his,
They'd always ask to hear,
It was obvious to all he had it,
That's his reward for conquering his fear.

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