Corderuoy trousers and yellow suede shoes, and plywood guitar for his poor kind of blues

Sits on the pavement, a bowl by his side, a song on his lips, and he’s never denied

The oddly kindly word, or a 20p pieces, from another kind soul that he managed to fleece

Faded blue jacket, his music his own, the world his great kingdom, the pavement his throne

He plays, not to eatr but for pleasure, his working life gives him his leisure

Having sung in honky-tonks and bars, at summer fetes, on roves of cars

And having sung for peanuts in a thousand dives and holes

The only way he knows, as he homeward strolls,

to the top-floor penthouse flat, paid for by a loving dad,  laughing at those, , who’d think him a cad

for taking cash he don’t need from those willing to give, living the way that he chooses to live.

Destruction of values, morality’s demise affect only those too weak to be wise

So accept his derision, the con-man, and don’t plead forgiveness for he can

never give it to anyone but himself.