BUSKING VAGABOND - ЗАЕЗЖИЙ МУЗЫКАНТ

This busking vagabond, standing on the corner
Trumpet on his tongue, is only passing through
You're not the one he loves, this godforsaken horner
Wake up and smell the brew, and hold me close to you

He got a room downtown, some fleabag by the station
A pillow and a bed, a window with no view
How heavily he sighs, in steamy perspiration
His melody is blue. But I, my love, love you

He trumpets out a hymn, as if to blow a gasket
He trumpets out a cough, he trumpets out his spew
His fate is plain to see, collected in his basket
But he does not love you, and I, my love, I do

I know in better days, I'll wear a whiter collar
And like some golden leaf, I'll circle through the blue
But isn't it a shame to weigh the world in dollars?
O would that it would do, to value only you

But you won't be seduced, with money or with dresses
This busking vagabond, and every tune he blew
Is worthier to you, than all the world possesses
For fate, by fate, is fate, and all that fate can do