There’s a smoky club scene on the lower east side, Where the lights stay dim, but the music rides. Limos roll in, short skirts and legs, Red velvet ropes guide the way. The bouncers step aside, cameras flash, The crowd leans in, for the man in the hat. They call him The Preacher, He sings like a hymn. Words from his soul, They burn from within. He'll draw your eyes to center stage, His hat, his cane, dark shades, thick frames. His choir locked in, on the same page, But when the hat comes off… You can feel his rage. He sings with power, with passion and grit, Sorrowful truths roll off his lips. You feel his pain, his past, his shame, But The Preacher don’t preach, he teaches no games. They call him The Preacher, He sings like a hymn. Truth in each line, He don't pretend. He once hid in the shadows, lived on streets with no names, Paid for his sins in cold, pouring rain. Now he confesses, the road is his home, Preaching his sermon with fire and tone He touches souls, his words hit home. The crowd screams in silence… A new light has shown. Another full house, another sold-out show. Hat back on… As The Preacher hits the road.
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