He's an aging rock an' roller,
Leaning by his shop's front door.
Wearing jeans with faded T-shirt,
Looking just a little dour.
Does he dream of days long gone
When he raced across the stage.
When Jimi Hendrix with the Beatles
Were all the latest rage.
Does he yearn for teams of roadies
With a life spent on the hop.
Or is he much more contented
With his room behind the shop.
Women stop, they talk to him.
They are of a certain age.
Quite unlike the groovy young chicks
When he was on the stage.
In his dreary shop front window
Stands a Fender, Oh! so swell.
There beside it lie some drumsticks
But nothing ever sells.
He's an aging rock an' roller
Locking up his shop's front door.
He is heading for his back room
But it's only ten to four!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem