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As the lights go down |
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The drumming clown |
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Whistled a melody |
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And as the rain pours down |
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His happy face |
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Turned into a sad one |
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The autumn wind reminded him |
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That the circus had come and gone |
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So he opened a pack of swisher sweets |
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And whistles down the first one |
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His clothes are ragged |
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And his hat is dusty |
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His drum is missing snares |
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He maybe laughin and he may be cryin |
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But no one knows nor cares |
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His belly's empty |
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But his heart is full |
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He knows where he belongs |
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So he steps aboard that lovely train |
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And he whitles his favorite song |
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And as he sleeps |
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He dreams of all the pretty girls he's seen throughout his life |
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And though his dreams are sweet |
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His aching feet |
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Awake him in the night |
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He wakes to the sound of thunder |
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And he thinks of a reason why |
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Then he hangs his head to cry |
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Then he drifted off to a deeper sleep |
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That no one could disturb |
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And when he woke |
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He was at a place that was higher than the birds |
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He said my god i'm here at last |
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Is this meant to be |
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I've lived the life of a hobo clown |
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Whistle tunes for money |
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And his lord spoke up |
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And said my friend |
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You are not alone |
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You've lived a good life my drumming clown |
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And now you have a home |
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And somewhere a stockboy opens a crate |
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And finds the butt of an old cigar |
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He hears a distant whistling |
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Then he gazes as the stars |
