As the music escaped
from the gallery next door
and floated down the avenue
the night was ablaze
with a blue neon haze
a chilly wind
blew on through
there is a poet
In the night cafe
his Govinda by his side
he lays it all out there
for all to see
leaving himself no
place to hide
fearlessly convinced of
his own righteousness
as he stunk from stale whiskey
and a musky stench
from the brothel
reciting an endless stream
of mystical lies
spewing them out as
his own form of gospel
down the street wet pavers
reflect the smokey taverns light
he rants and he swears that it\'s
he who has woven the very
fabric of life
You listen and you are swayed
it is hard to say
he\'s not right
the poet in the night cafe
thinks he is the prophet
of the ages
steadfast in his belief
that he not only wrote
the book of life
but that he gets
to turn the pages
he has been stripped naked
of his imagination
and he doesn\'t believe in god
he has been push to the brink
of desolation
and that\'s a mighty hard
road to trod
the road to desolation
is a terrible road to ride
you must ask god to please
help you
if you find that road is smooth
but he doesn\'t want
your sympathy
he says he doesn\'t have anything
left that he needs to prove
this poet in the night cafe
with his Govinda
by his side
telling his stories
of what he\'s learned in life
leading you to where
reason and madness collide
we have all learn a lot
from people who have
never written a verse
for in train stations ,
taverns and all nite cafes
is where we find
the true poets
of our universe