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Folk Singer’s Defense

© 2003 Aaron Traffas (BMI)

A romantic, she called me,
about an inch neigh from the bottom of my scotch glass.
It was 4 am on a Tuesday.
We sat and drank and talked and watched the stars pass.

She said, “I don’t like your music.
To your folk songs I can’t dance.”
I said, “Let me wring your heart.
Give my thoughts a chance.”

I try to write a song in every key.
I try to sing in tune to a pleasant melody,
but it’s not the music
that makes them laugh and cry.
It’s the words to the story that tells them about my life.

A poor damn fool, she called me.
She said, “You could be a big star if you’d just try.”
I said, “It’s not the money.
I’m happy to play here for free in the dim light.
When the spotlight’s on the lead guitar
and I’m drowned out by the drums,
the words don’t seem to matter much
and then what good have I done?

My friends are big stars now.
I hear them on the radio playing,
but they mumble all the words.
I can’t know what they’re saying.
So I’ll just keep on searching
for a story to tell.
As far as inspiration goes,
I told her she’s doing well.