|
Flower Lady |
|
Phil Ochs |
|
Millionaires and paupers walk the hungry streets |
|
Rich and poor companions of the restless beat |
|
Strangers in a foreign land |
|
Strike a match with trembling hand |
|
Learn too much to ever understand |
|
But nobody's buying flowers from the flower lady |
|
Lover's quarrel, snarl away their happiness |
|
Kissed crumble in a web of lonliness |
|
It's written by the poison pen |
|
Voices break before they bend |
|
The door is slammed |
|
It's over, once again |
|
But nobody's buying flowers from the flower lady |
|
Poets agonize, they cannot find the words |
|
And the stone stares at the sculptor asks "are you absurd?" |
|
The painter paints his brushes back |
|
Through the canvas runs a crack |
|
Portrait of the pain never answers back |
|
But nobody's buying flowers from the flower lady |
|
Soldiers, disillusioned, come home from the war |
|
Sarcastic students tell them not to fight no more |
|
And they argue through the night |
|
Black is black and white is white |
|
Walk away both knowing they are right |
|
But nobody's buying flowers from the flower lady |
|
Smoke dreams of escaping souls are drifting by |
|
Dull the pain of living as they slowly die |
|
Smiles change into a sneer |
|
washed away by whiskey tears |
|
In the quicksand of their mind they disappear |
|
Still nobody's buying flowers from the flower lady |
|
Feeble, aged, people almost to their knees |
|
Complain about the present using memories |
|
Never found their pot of gold |
|
Wrinkled hands pound weary holes |
|
Each line screams out you're old, you're old, you're old |
|
But nobody's buying flowers from the flower lady |
|
And the flower lady hobbles home without a sale |
|
Tattered shreds of petals leave a fading trail |
|
Not a pause to hold a rose |
|
Even she no longer knows |
|
The lamp goes out the evening now is closed |
|
And nobody's buying flowers from the flower lady |
