His footsteps echoed softly through the early morning hour
  The slowness of his move should be a warning
  From the trash he digs a pair of socks and yesterday's flowers
  What a way to start a monday-morning
  
  He might have been a carpenter at one time in his life
  Built a lot of homes but never had one
  Or he might have been a poet who'd come upon some hard times
  And all that he had lived was just them sad poems
  
  He might have been a singer whit a lot of promise
  Cigarettes and whisky ruined his throat
  And it's hard to remember even a simple tune
  Or the words to the songs that he had wrote
  
  Take me back to Memphis, I've got to do some things
  I've been in this city way too long
  And it lays heavy on my mind when I see another man
  Having to make the sidewalk, having to make the sidewalk his home