The Book of American Negro Poetry/The Banjo Player

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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 Kringle.
But I fear that I am a failure. Last night a woman
  called me a troubadour. What is a troubadour?