The Banjo Player





There is music in me, the music of a peasant people.

I wander through the levee, picking my banjo and singing

my songs of the cabin and the field. At the

Last Chance Saloon I am as welcome as the violets

in March; there is always food and drink for me

there, and the dimes of those who love honest music.

Behind the railroad tracks the little children clap

their hands and love me as they love Kris Kringle.



But I fear that I am a failure. Last night a woman

called me a troubadour. What is a troubadour?





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