Messiah
Something breaks inside this musty beggar.
As he awakes to see he's on 6th Avenue.
Where he sat and sang and endured the weather.
Where he sat and sang and sung the truth.
But the world didn't view things the way he used to.
And couldn't seem to make them believe.
The way that he saw things.
The way that it should be.
But I heard him play, like holy water.
And it opened up my eyes.
This man in tattered clothing; he's a, messiah, in disguise.
And I will sadly sing these awful songs.
That were made in his design.
Like music he sang all along.
Like music that's divine.
But Then his lovely daughter died.
And he couldn't handle the grief.
He wrote one last sobbing song.
And they found him in week.
Huddled in inside an alley-way.
Where he died inside his sleep.
Dreaming on his daughter's eyes.
Dreaming that he weeps.
And now I'm singing songs about his daughter.
That brings a tear into to my eye.
This man in tattered clothing; he's a, messiah in disguise.
So I will sadly sing these awful songs.
That were made in his design.
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