And he sits beside
the fountain with his head bowed down.
Don't look around at the gray steel and
the concrete.
A man has never known a colder home with 50 cents for burgundy.
A paper bag that holds a change of socks
and a Bible that's too poor to hawk.
And I looked into his eyes.
They were blue like mine.
I recognized the hollow,
sunken
feeling
like some work of art they painted
to hang upon the wall.
As we gathered round
to praise the honesty
of one man's lonely misery.
And every heart that ever broke
one man's dreams, a heavy load that died
from an overdose of on the road.
Sits all alone.
I gave the man some money
and wished him well as my eyes fell to his feet.
The bottom of a body wrapped up inside such
ragged clothes that I felt like a millionaire.
With little more but rich, so rich in love.
And no one gives a damn for him.
And I hope that he finds Jesus or a bed tonight or
another drink.
I'd take him home but you
see now
I don't live alone.
Even if I did, some other man would.
And my reason would make me think
of the places that I must go.
And every heart that ever broke
one man's dreams, a heavy load that died
from an overdose of on the road.
Sits all alone.
And maybe if he got a shave and washed the blood off of his face
and
changed his suit he'd be some use to this country,
this prosperity.
But he's bleeding in his soul.
I haven't found a cure for that you see,
except for maybe burgundy.
And every heart that ever broke one man's dreams,
a heavy load that died
from an overdose of on the road.
Sits all alone.