This busking vagabond standing on the corner
Trumpet on his tongue is only passing through
You're not the one he loves, this god-forsaken horner
Wake up and smell the brew and hold me close to you
He's 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 of hymn, as if to blow a gasket
He trumpets out a cough he trumpets out his spew
His fate is plain to see collecting 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 weight the worth in dollars
Award 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
He's worthier to you than all the world possesses
For fate by fate is fate and all that fate can do
Судьба, судьбы, судьбе, судьбою, о судьбе…