he lies beneath the trestles of an old familiar place.
Beside him sits an angel that only he can see,
his mind wanders back in time to how things use to be.
A trembling hand stokes the fire to fight against the cold,
as he talks to the angel reminiscing on days of old.
His fingers touch the Bible he has read a hundred times,
then he slowly tips a bottle of some cheap red wine.
If he wakes tomorrow he'll make his trek to town; he'll preach from the corner as the people gather round.
A preacher or a drunkard, it really matters none,
it's all just foolish babble about the Father and the Son.
He says the hour has come, minutes are counting down;
listen to the Heavens rumble, hear the trumpet sound.
Revelations are upon us, Armageddon is close at hand,
he shouts like a prophet from the corner where he stands.
Coins jingle around him mingled with laughs and sneers,
he's just a drunken beggar and nobody really cares.
His heart inside is aching, tears roll from his eyes,
as he holds up the Bible begging them to come to Christ.
He lies down with an angel 'neath that trestle dark and cold,
as the moonlight cast its shadows he asks God to take his soul.
His mind has grown so weary on a world that's gone astray,
and his words like the prophets have just fallen by the way.
He listens to the rumbling of a passing midnight train,
and the lonesome whistle blowing echoing through his brain.
He hears the wheels clicking on endless rails of steel
as the blood flowing through his veins takes an icy chill.