So my wife said to me, "Just how
hard can it be to write a song?". She produced these lyrics in
about five minutes flat, sitting in the garden one sunny Sunday
afternoon. Huh.
The first I heard of you was not your name
The first I saw of you was not your face
The thing I most remember, looking back across the years
Was your clapped-out rusted car
Where you kept your fine guitar
On the back seat, in its black and gleaming case It went ahead of
you to every party
Was first in through the door as if it knew
It was welcome everywhere, like the smile of an old friend
Though the guy who walked behind it
Had shy hands that needed holding
And a lonely heart that only sang the blues
Oh the sound of that guitar started ripples in my blood
That time has never managed to erase
And I remember every day
How you first came my way
And locked my heart up in that gleaming case The frets are worn
down now, the varnish dulled
That old guitar's had many sets of strings
But it plays a better song than it did when you were young
When your heart had never known
What it was to call your own
A love that always listens when you sing. |
