Gypsy Lullaby by George Page

Down on the boardwalk the gypsy holds out his hat. People quickly pass on by. Not a glance goes his way but his guitar lullaby echoes in their ears. Not a penny goes in his tattered hat. He's soaked to the bone with lost dreams and whisky made of wishes.

Down on the boardwalk the gypsy plays his pain. It's made of teardrops and rain. The old guitar is battered. Children are laughing at him again. If he had to say what's happening, he'd probably go insane.

Some of his songs are icebergs melting down but now and then one skyrockets like the fourth of July. He gets lost inside his fantasies of fading neon. Now and then someone tosses a dollar in his hat but he can't see it with those old glass eyes. Sometimes he wishes he could die.

Down on the boardwalk the gypsy holds out his hat. People quickly pass on by. Not a glance goes his way but his guitar lullaby echoes in their ears. Not a penny goes in his tattered hat. He's soaked to the bone with lost dreams and whisky made of wishes.

• Acoustic
• folk
• meditation
• new age
• poetry
• spoken word
• Vilcabamba