As I walk these narrow streets where a million passin' feet have trod before me
With my guitar in my hand, suddenly I realise nobody knows me
Where yesterday the multitudes screamed and cried my name out for a song
Now the streets are empty, and the crowds they've all gone home.
With the rain on my face, there's no place where I belong
And my whole life consists of a story, a poem and a song
Now the truths I've tried to tell you are as distant as the moon
Born a hundred years too late, two hundred years too soon.
I'm a child of the stage, lost in the pages of a book
But when I'm dust and clay, will other people stop to take a look?
And will they marvel at the miracles I performed, and to the heights I aspired
Or will they tear the pages of the book to light a fire?
With the rain on my face, there's no place where I belong.....