He told me last time

 
There's a man who sits in the pissy doorways around these parts  
his fingers hold the neck of a dominating guitar ransom  
for whatever the price of freedom is  
those fingers that dance between the colours of continents  
they deserve a word to breathe when their crooked curves bring the air to climax  
 
the way the frog in his throat shits the world into his voice means music won't do  
clink some coins into his bag of hopes  
share some smokes when freedoms running low  
and ratty blankets when the air bites deeper  
talk of steel traps and pitfalls  
 
let him remember songs stolen by the ones who left
ask for the ones he found under the feet of those that came back  
but the name of a man stooped from the weight of blankets dipped in shame  
is a song best saved for days when the sun might rise  
and tomorrow stops playing with this toy