What is he like?
I was told to behold—
he was a musical soul.
The gift of gab –
he never had.
Fashion and flair—
he had plenty to share.
Ever the wanderer—
seeking the lonely way.
Freedom beckoned from
the depth of his soul.
Day turns to night, Night turns to day
and he plays.
While the night sleeps
One stroke of his strings —
and it begins.
The spark of freedom
etched in his soul
The wanderer in his heart
was not to be set apart.
Shine bright, shine strong,
he could do no wrong.
He left his place to chase
the music in his soul –
the light shone from afar,
flames burned from within.
The rebel soul
not to be tamed or —
defamed.
Yeah, he is the wandering man.
