As I walk these narrow streets where a million passin' feet are before me.

With my guitar in my hand suddenly I realize nobody knows me.

Well yesterday the motor toots screamed and cried my name out for a song.

Now the streets are empty and the crowds they go on home.

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

And my whole life consists of a story of poem at a song.

Now the truths I've tried to tell you are as distant as the moon.

More than hundred years too late two hundred years too soon.

I'm a child of the sage Lord's been in the pages of a book.

But when I'm dust and clay where other people stop and to look.

And will they marvel and miracles and perform into the high size to the spider.

Oh will they take the pages of the book to light of fire.

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

See also:
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