The Man Behind the Camera He was thirteen when he picked up a pen And started making up songs Never knew where they would take him then Never knew where he'd gone He learned to see the world through a camera Through smoke and rain and light Chasing stories down a viewfinder Trying to get them right He played in bars where the mornings came And the wine ran out too soon Played for strangers who forgot his name But remembered the tune He crossed a few roads he shouldn't have crossed And survived a few nights he might not Collected some scars and a whole lot of laughs And stories that time never forgot He's still writing songs when the house is quiet Still chasing a line in the dark Still hearing a melody nobody else hears Still striking the first little spark He's had his share of sorrow, his share of the rain But there's something that won't let him quit He's getting old perhaps, but the boy's still there And he's still got a song in him yet There was Eddie and suits and a strange little place Where the band found itself playing There were ships down at docks and Scandinavian nights And stories too good for explaining There were women and wine and a gambling club And musicians trying to get paid And somewhere amongst all the madness Another good story was made He's written of fathers and sons far away Of lovers and old friends gone Of young mothers waiting beside railway lines And the places the lost ones move on He writes about rain and the old country roads About memories fading like smoke And sometimes at two in the morning A song comes and gives him a poke He's still writing songs when the house is quiet Still chasing a line in the dark Still hearing a melody nobody else hears Still striking the first little spark He's had his share of sorrow, his share of the rain But there's something that won't let him quit He's getting old perhaps, but the boy's still there And he's still got a song in him yet So here's to the cameraman Who spent his life watching the world Here's to the musician who kept playing Long after the curtain had curled Here's to the notebook beside the bed And the coffee waiting at dawn Here's to the dogs and the morning walk And another new song coming on He never set out to write his life He just wrote what he knew One little story, then another one Till the years came shining through And if you ask him what he's got left He'll probably laugh and say "Well, I've got another bloody song in my head— Give me a minute... it'll come." He's still writing songs when the house is quiet Still chasing a line in the dark Still hearing a melody nobody else hears Still striking the first little spark He's had his share of sorrow, his share of the rain But there's something that won't let him quit He's getting old perhaps, but the boy's still there And he's still got a song in him yet.
