Heard a busker down on Market Street
He was playing in the middle of a crowd
And his, voice like a fountain of sweetness,
came pouring down

The audience uncrumpled their ones and fives
Tossed them in his case and they applauded
But his song was so much better than mine
That I held on tightly to my dollar

And I'm not proud of the pleasure I take
when the famous fall and the beautiful break

I'm hoping talent is a function of time
They say you must be patient when you're starting
And though I sit and sweat over the rhythm and the rhyming
Sometimes I get disheartened

And I'm not proud of the pleasure I take
when the famous fall and the beautiful

Break me from the trance of my daily thoughts
The litany of qualities that I am not
The promise of enlightenment keeps teasing me
Like a wounded bird
Leading me on and on

Went looking for that busker just the other day
Had my wallet at the ready
Planned to make amends for what I had not paid
In my hand I held a twenty

As you might expect, we never met again
Maybe karma wouldn't let us
So I went home and fretted out these chords
Said this song would be my penance

And I'm not proud of the pleasure I take
when the famous fall and the beautiful break
No, I'm not proud of the pleasure I take
when the famous fall and the beautiful break