All ‘cross the land, the people disheartened,
Many souls done been put through the ringer;
Tho’ much is to be said of poets and their words,
This is a song about a singer.
A singer and player, pauper king of no place,
His beard grew long as he toured the land,
Those days heard guitar and voice gently surround,
To still our hearts when we can’t understand.
On axe called Wolf, notes like modern angel’s lyre,
But it was his pained voice revealed him a saint.
The instrument filled our air with sounds down from above
Mattering not if he sang full loud or soft faint.
He’d only begun when the good war was lost;
Victory claims no role in his story,
Wounded himself, his mission to tend to the rest,
To comfort us while we lay, so far from glory.
Both sage and fool could see what he was,
Thousands came following while his sun still yet shone,
He offered no salvation, no answers, no clear path,
Just gentle American reminder that we’re never alone.
Those lucky enough to see it can never deny
The inspiration was holy that moved him so bright,
Been gone twice a decade, yet all round if you listen,
So let our thanks be to the coolest cat up there in the stars tonight.