Playing For The Traffic

You could have seen him any day up the back of Martin Place
In a battered Sunday suit that’s seen far better days
Blowing on a mouth harp with the kind of wit and grace
That would bring a smile to the face of a broken clock
And there was not a verse or chorus the old bugger didn’t know
From Mother Kelly’s Doorstep to The Banks of the Ohio
The typists and the tellers didn’t want to bloody know
Dealing with their dose of future shock

He was playing for the traffic and the nine to fivers
Tooraloo you’re bound for Botany Bay
And he gave more to this world than all the penny-pinching bastards
That turned around and looked the other way

Well, I stood a while to listen and he played the thing with ease
But the crowd that day was tighter than a Pom at a wine and cheese
Maybe they were hard up or just plain hard to please
But no one put a single cent his way
So I reached into my pocket to even up the score
And dropped a pile of change into the tin plate on the floor
When you work the streets they treat you like a sleeper
And no one ought to ever feel that way

He was playing when I left him, with a new crowd to convince
I often look out for him but he’s not been back there since
Did anybody notice, does anybody wince
At some old digger picking through the trash
In this land of milk and honey where there’s more than enough for all
Why did he spend his whole life with his back against the wall
Did he fight in two world wars to wind up with sweet f**k all
Working on the street for a bit of stash