ramblings and things

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12 String Blues

Willie was a working man labouring every single day
Aching muscles earning him his bare existence pay,
And he was tired and he was surly, very seldom spoke
Not an obviously apparent socially rising type of bloke.
Willie had a secret. Nearly every working night
Wille donned a tuxedo and strode into the lights,
Played a twelve string Gibson, in a world of his own,
Fingers picks working as he made that guitar moan.
He played songs of freedom, songs of love, raw blues,
Carrying his listeners to worlds they never even knew.
Brought them tears of laughter,
Brought them roars of joy,
Brought them close together
The girls and the boys.
You could feel that emotion rising
Almost cut it with a knife
As Willie made his twelve string
Pour out the stuff of life;
Played it with feeling, played it with care
But deep in his mind
Willie wasn't even there.
He was thinking of a life in Palestine
And of a sprawling shanty town,
The last place he was happy
Until tanks dozered it down;
And Willie's beloved partner
Was caught there in its track.
Willie left there crying
He's never ever been back.
He works himself to exhaustion.
Doesn't care for his rising fame.
Just lives there with his memories
Hears her gently call his name.
Willie plays the twelve string.
Willie plays with soul.
Maybe the music will one day
Make Willie whole.
Willie was a working man
labouring every single day
Aching muscles earning him
his bare existence pay




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12 String Blues