I knew a painter in my younger days,
A man who lived with brushes, sticks and stones.
His days were filled with canvas scenes
Of browns and blues and meadow greens.
And the world just passed on by his door.
He lived, but lived alone.
And he'd come to town with his old wool cap pulled down.
Surrounded by the dogs that were his friends.
At time too drunk to stand, he'd shake familiar hands.
And sit around the Esso station, 'til his loneliness would end.
And I knew a painter, in my reckless days.
Bristle bearded, humble on his feet.
A sympathetic, sad old elf,
He knew me better than I knew myself
In the last days of my boyhood,
In my time upon the street.
And long through the night, a faded yellow light,
Would burn inside the room where he would stand.
And play the old victrola and drink his rusty wine.
And conduct the Mozart music with his heart and shaking hand.
But he could paint a picture, and he could capture life.
And no one ever felt things more than he.
He was never much for roses, he'd sooner paint the thorns.
'Cause he found a keener beauty there
That no one else could see.
Someone bought the house he lived in.
Painted up the room he died in.
Swept away the cobwebs and the dust from off the floor.
The children laugh, the seasons run,
Young lovers roll in midnight fun.
But no one loves more than the one
Who paints the world no more.
And long through the night, a faded yellow light,
Would burn inside the room where he would stand.
And play the old victrola and drink his rusty wine.
And conduct the Mozart music with his heart and shaking hand.