Ballad of a Young Troubadour
I left T.O. quite some time ago,
Sometime in the spring,
With just a knapsack and a six-string.
I'd made this deal, I was barely seventeen,
Armed with delusions of a dream.
Hitchhiked for days,
All along the northwest,
With no knowledge in my chest
Of ways and means and schemes.
By the time I hit Seattle,
I arrived by train,
It was called the Empire Building,
I don't know how it got its name.
Not even old enough to drink,
But I always found a way,
Often stumbling out onto the street,
The moon shining on my back.
In a few more years
I would try again,
This time with my friends,
Who shared much of the same.
The same sense of wonder,
Or desire for faith,
As the white lines hurdled past the asphalt,
How quickly that would change.
We headed out on the 401
Feeling no pain,
Until one day somehow
That would all turn to shame.
So much was in us at the time,
It helped me to close my mind
And try not to think at all
As we braced for the fall.
All the good that was promised in life
Was taken so easily.
Turns out reality wasn't cracked up to be
What it was meant to be.
When in doubt, I look back to when I was seventeen,
And all those miles and miles and miles that I've seen.
Each inch of pavement has a story to tell,
Some I can't recall, others I remember all too well.