The Banjo Player

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 like they love Kris Kringle.

But I fear that I am a failure.

Last night a woman called me

a troubadour.

What is a troubadour?