Straight-backed chair and a table where he sits when he's able
To walk over from bedridden misery
To record from his thoughts on a worn out table cloth
Where he'd been while his mind breaks sleeplessly

Though his body's bent with age, you know he's still out on that stage
Entertaining all his friends that pause to greet him at the door
Forty-nine years out on the road, many nights he'd saved a soul
Now he sits and waits to claim his own reward

God's own singer of songs is going home
Though he's poor, might be the richest one you know
All his pain will set him free
Wash his soul and cleans him clean
God's own singer of songs is going home
God's own singer of songs is going home