Arising out of the mirage of the desert, a minstrel
comes riding, pauncho draped across shoulder,
personifying the archetype of the anti-hero.
He is the man with no name,
Not seeking fame, fortune, or gain.
Riding tall astride his horse,
his few choice words coarse, voice hoarse,
from days and nights on the trail.
This is the tale of his past travails.
Not seeking fame, fortune, or gain,
He is the man with no name.
Taking on the shape of past incarnations,
such as the face of Elvis, or Jim Morrison,
previous lives, separate forms,
different voices, same song at the core.
You, did you live in vain?
For the songs that you sang?
Did people listen to the words you expressed?
Or were they just intoxicated with your success?
An Image placed on a pedestal,
a Symbol chiseled into stone,
once created, hard to dethrone..
When he rode into town,
crowds gathered from all around,
he drove them wild,
with lyrics that flowed like honey,
song and verse that beguiled,
harmonizing with a hypnotizing beat,
captivating them, holding them hostage,
in a prison built for two,
separating viewer from the viewed.
How could he be free?
Inside this cell of his own making?
Imprisoned inside this glass tower,
his mind poisoned by this rise to power.
He was at the summit,
the peak of his success,
when he learned the limits,
the limits to being famous.
The blessed serenity of being nobody,
choosing death in an attempt to flee,
from this cursed imprisonment
of the audiences' enchantment.
Now when he comes into town,
He is the man with no name,
Not seeking fame, fortune or gain.
He comes without making a sound,
riding his horse surreptitiously,
through the crowded city streets,
an outsider he rides in stealth, silently!
Inspiring a few kindred souls here and there,
with a few choice verses carefully prepared.
Knowing when its his cue to escape,
back into the mirage of the desert landscape.
Not seeking fame, fortune, or gain,
He is the man with no name...