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The Banjo Player by Fenton Johnson | Poets.Org
There is music in me, the music of a peasant people.
I wander through the levee, picking my banjo and singing my songs of
the cabin and the field. At the Last Chance Saloon I am as welcome
as the violets in March; there is always food and drink for me there,
and the dimes of those who love honest music. Behind the railroad
tracks the little children clap their hands and love me as they love Kris
But I fear that I am a failure. Last night a woman called me a
troubadour. What is a troubadour?
About This Poem