Johnny Harmonica is kicking up fuss,
Wailing on the corner that he's had enough of
Liars, crooks and all that stuff
But all he's got is songs.
He shouts and screams 'til he can't no more,
He's sick to death of bombs and war,
He may be skint be he ain't poor,
Not like half the world.
He don't do drugs, he don't drink booze,
Compassion is his only muse,
He offers you the right to choose
To die on your feet or knees.
He tried his luck with Mr Jones,
But Jones didn't like his vocal tones,
And though the streets are bare as bones,
The lamp-post is all ears.
And so, whilst the sun continues burning,
And until the world ceases its turning,
Johnny will sing his crooked song,
'Cos although a song never changed the world,
Neither will a poem.
