Matchstick Man

So there he was then, Penzance to play Christmas Eve in a nowhere band Now early morning Christmas Day He's hitching home to Geordieland Last night the snow came, just my luck And who the hell do you think you are Climbing up into that truck With your old bag and your guitar And you, you would-be vagabond No-one invited you, you know Matchstick man, up in the dawn You've got five hundred miles to go The driver now must drop off his load The snow still laying thick on the ground Leaves him on a high crossroads Where he can see for miles around The sun is shining, sky is blue And everything is white and bare Not a car comes into view There's nothing moving anywhere And you, you would-be vagabond No-one invited you, you know Matchstick man, you speck upon These vast and silent plains of snow