the fog comes in and out with the tides like my pocket watch it doesn't keep the time spitting smoke combustion from foreign cars choking my family history with the bloody wars troubador, whats the score? standing in line with the tenderloin whores troubador, take a fucking tour cuz my eyes are welling up from the last g-chord
break-time satisfies with tar and nicotine and the church bells afternoon licks ring of blasphemy true to filth and form bus and trolley off the track and line lunch time whistles stop the workers but not the troubador's crime the pub patrons spend their wages in mumbled bouts the grub merchants chewed the fat then chewed you out pedestrian, night journeyment pass your separate ways when you're eating from the piss trough they're all pissing in your plate troubador, less is more is it in your heart to give up the floor troubafor, pissed and poor tell me something I haven't heard before