His curly gray hair wisps in the breeze

Under cloudy skies and not many trees,

As he toils in England's Lyme Regis.

He wanders as a street sweeper and has not much to boast

In this town of four thousand on the great channel's coast.

He occupies his time in Lyme Regis.

A cart and a broom,

From church to saloon

He works for no pay in Lyme Regis.

Unemployed for four years,

Though he asks not for tears,

He has time to think in Lyme Regis.

You see...

He was a publicist fifteen years for Sir Paul,

On top of the world, on top of it all

Before he returned to Lyme Regis.

He was loaded with money, hobnobbed with the great,

Partied with the winners and Paul paid his freight.

He originally was from Lyme Regis.

And then came the day, when a lot wasn't enough.

He cheated the Beatle out of some of his stuff.

And this led to his return to Lyme Regis.

Now he travels nowhere, says he wants to give tours.

He's a novel in his head, says he'll write it for sure.

In the meantime he abides in Lyme Regis.

The lesson is clear for all who'll draw near.

It's been taught, though not learned, many times through the years;

What will return you fast to Lyme Regis.

When you have and want more,

And honor goes out the door;

When lust takes the front seat;

And greed won't abate;

Many days you have won,

But down you will come

To your own Lyme Regis.