The old street musician |
| In the streets of old Paris grows a man who used to be |
| Rich and famous in his day because of songs that he would play |
| Now he walks from street to street, rags for shoes upon his feet |
| But the words that he wrote down still get played from town to town |
| |
| I can hear the song you're singing, will it ever die? |
| Though you're old and they don't know you when you pass them by |
| Still, the songs you wrote are bringing joy to one and all |
| You hear them in the streets and squares and subways and up the stairs |
| Your melodies will always be a happy lasting memory |
| |
| So as you retire to bed, close your eyes and rest your head |
| You can hear the sound of feet on the pavement, in the street |
| When he rests, you never know, he'll just sing a song and go |
| Throw a penny, if you can, to the old man singing there |
| |
| I can hear the song you're singing, will it ever die? |
| Though you're old and they don't know you when you pass them by |
| Still, the songs you wrote are bringing joy to one and all |
| You hear them in the streets and squares and subways and up the stairs |
| Your melodies will always be a happy lasting memory |
| |
| I can hear the song you're singing, will it ever die? |
| I can hear the song you're singing, will it ever die? |