The Whiskey-Eyed Singer

He’s a whiskey-eyed singer, an old balladeer,
And his life is the dust storm that carries him here,
Rides the tumbleweed special, that blows town to town,
And he lives in the hat that he passes around,

Just a whiskey-eyed singer, a free minstrel man,
And he’s traveled all over this green growing land,
Been in jail in the north and cut brush in the south,
He’s a mailman for glory, and he lives hand to mouth,

He’s a whiskey-eyed singer, who freezes at night,
And the lip of the bottle’s the bullet he bites,
And the years don’t go gentle, they torture him slow,
He has no one and nothing and no place to go,

He’s a whiskey-eyed singer, a leather faced clown,
And he sings and he plays and he dances around,
He’s a lesson in lonely, and you’ll learn it well,
If you listen real close to the stories he tells,

Just a whiskey-eyed singer, a gray troubadour,
But he’s doin’ the thing God created him for,
For he captures your dreams in the songs that he weaves,
And he leaves some folks laughin’, helps others to grieve,

He’s a whiskey-eyed singer, who freezes at night,
And the lip of the bottle’s the bullet he bites,
And the years don’t go gentle, they torture him slow,
He has no one and nothing and no place to go,

He has no one and nothing, and no place to go.

© Tim Henderson 1978