Dulcet tones on city nights,
Come from tubes out a bottle.
His lungs, they say, no longer work,
His steps, they are a waddle.
A broken man most certainly,
And one without a home.
Yet golden horn held to his lips,
His notes could render stone,
To blink back tears, and sudden fears,
That with time marching on,
There will come a day, not far away,
Where his notes, there will be none.