Avant-Garde Busker

Avant-Garde Busker

This concert is not worth the ticket,
I can assure you all.
I can’t even play my instrument,
and my songs are poor beyond recall.

My music is not classed country western,
folk rock, blues, jazz or pop,
and if you want to hear my best song,
you might as well tell me now to stop.

I have no musical education,
certainly no music degree.
My songs have no real foundation,
and I rarely sing in key.

I’m really more like an avant-garde busker,
singing my spontaneous rap,
and as you walk by for the sake of high art and pity,
please put at least one penny in my cap.

I’m not interested in social comment
or proclaiming myself as the new poet prophet of the pen.
If you like the music you are hearing,
you can always walk by me again.

This song for me is quite revolutionary,
unaccompanied by my acoustic Yamaha guitar.
I’m playing on my tone bank computer organ,
worked by a battery to make me a star.

For my muse, I compose my rumpled rondelay,
I would like to sculpt her, spirit, skin and bone.
Her grace would occupy sacred space,
if I had the skills, the tools, the stone.

Donovan sang of Atlantis
and of the hurdy-gurdy man.
Some of us were moved by the message,
but few knew how to follow the plan.

Call me an avant-garde busker,
trying to be free of the trap,
and as you walk by for the sake of high art and pity
please put at least one penny in my cap.

At least one penny, at least one penny,
at least one penny in my cap.

 

 

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