The Daily Ballad

In a Manhattan hall of polished stone, A former king now stands alone. Thirty-four whispers, a jury's decree, For a secret sold, for the world to see. A paper trail of hush and shame, A guilty verdict calls his name. Another chapter in the book of pride, Where power falls and fortunes tide. Oh, the headlines spin and fade away, But the story's old as sun and clay. A different name, a different year, The same old hope and the same old fear. The wheel of fortune turns so slow,

For the high and mighty, and the folks below. They talk of rates up on the Hill, To make the turning market stand still. But the price of bread and gasoline, Paints a much more weary scene. A father counts his dollars thin, Wonders where does he begin. The banker's guess, the chairman's word, Just a distant thunder, barely heard. Oh, the headlines spin and fade away, But the story's old as sun and clay. A different name, a different year, The same old hope and the same old fear.

The wheel of fortune turns so slow, For the high and mighty, and the folks below. A line is drawn across the sand, For a soul who seeks a promised land. And the sky above turns angry red, While the river overflows its bed. The earth, she groans a heavy sigh, As another summer burns too high. From human borders to smokey skies, I hear the same old, weary cries. Oh, the headlines spin and fade away, But the story's old as sun and clay. A different name, a different year,

The same old hope and the same old fear. The wheel of fortune turns so slow, For the high and mighty, and the folks below.