| You can say the soul is gone
|
| And the feeling is just not there
|
| Not like it was so long ago.
|
| On the empty page before you
|
| You can fill in what you care
|
| Try to make it new before you go.
|
| Take the simple case of the serge
|
| Who can’t go back to war
|
| 'Cause the hippies tore down everything that he was fighting for.
|
| Or the lovers on the blankets
|
| That the city turned to whores
|
| With memories of green kissed by the sun.
|
| You can say the soul is gone
|
| And close another door
|
| Just be sure that yours is not the one.
|
| And I’m singing for the stringman
|
| Who lately lost his wife
|
| There is no dearer friend of mine
|
| That I know in this life.
|
| On his shoulder rests a violin
|
| For his head where chaos reigns
|
| But his heart can’t find a simple way
|
| To live with all those things.
|
| All those things
|
| He’s a stringman
|
| A stringman
|
| All those strings to pull |