This is just a story of the kind of glory
That can belong to a free man
Of the road less travelled
Where every day’s a battle
And any way takes all that he can
No one knows his secrets
Not one would believe it
If they could see or just understand
A man without a purpose except for what his worth is
And music is a voice to his hands
He travels the land, a traveling man
With dirt on his hands, this traveling man