|
I spin tales each day of this world full of wonder |
|
I hear people say, "You can harvest the plunder" |
|
But as I reach out with a trembling hand |
|
All the gold coins just turn into sand |
|
I feel very weary, my temper is biting |
|
I know I've grown leery and tired of the fighting |
|
I pray everyday that it all will be grand |
|
But I sure could use help of your kind, friendly hand |
|
Please, Storyteller, pull a tale from your pocket |
|
Spin me a story from your coattail so bare |
|
My heart has turned cold, my dreams are too old |
|
And I need to know magic's still there |
|
My own coat's too thin and I'm down to the lining |
|
The spirit within on itself is entwining |
|
My colors are faded, my cuffs are both worn |
|
And the seam down the back is all tattered and torn |
|
Please, Storyteller, pull a tale from your pocket |
|
Spin me a story from your coattail so bare |
|
My heart has turned cold, my dreams are too old |
|
And I need to know magic's still there |
|
I walk through your door, see the smile that won't tire |
|
I sit on the floor with your dog by the fire |
|
You'll guide me on walkways where the faerie lights burn |
|
And I hope that I never return |
|
Who'll keep the firelight bright when you're gone? |
|
Who has the insight to help me go on? |
|
You taught me that stories, once told, can come true |
|
And I hope that I tell them with magic, like you |
|
Please, Storyteller, pull a tale from your pocket |
|
Spin me a story from your coattail so bare |
|
My heart has turned cold, my dreams are too old |
|
And I need to know magic's still there |
|
Please, Storyteller, pull a tale from your pocket |
|
Spin me a story from your coattail so bare |
|
My heart has turned cold, my dreams are too old |
|
And I need to know magic's still there |
