2 Songwriters 200 Songs

Saturday, pressing crowds, shopping centres loom,
ragged man, his scratched machine fighting for his room.
Handle turns, a hissing noise and warbled sounds come out;
a hat is put down for the coins, the mercy of the crowd.
Hurdy gurdy, turn the wheel,
hurdy gurdy, this is how I feel.
I am the monkey on the box, I do my old routines;
I grin my grins, raise my hat and play the man of means;
on and on, day by day, time and time again,
I move on and the drop of coins truly tells me when.
The handle turns, the pipes breathe tunes, their reedy wheezing sound
and while the crowds are moving on it′s moving round and round.
I′m still standing in a daze, hear old songs repeat,
we move in cycles on and on but never they′re complete.



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