He could sell shoes to a butterfly if he could catch one,
smile and tell a joke even if it didnít fit.
Sing a song to a crowd that wasnít there for him;
tell a fable to a child with his imaginary friend
but not do magic for his blues,
no, there was no magic for his blues.
With a suitcase full of laughs he perfected his act,
painting his face and pulling flowers from his ears.
He danced on street corners
not for dollars nor for dimes,
but all to mask his blues,
all to mask his blues.
When the crowds disappear heís got nowhere to go,
wipes his face, rubs his feet, picks up his show.
He leans towards loneliness,
that big empty space
with nothing but room for his blues,
nothing but room for his blues.