That Black Guitar

I was little Vlado then

when the gypsies came a wandering, to our town

they'd come by the house, and they'd start to play.

and father would go, to his room, and pickup his guitar

which he'd bought long ago

with his paltry pay.

Mister, do you still have that guitar?

Mister, do you still have that black guitar?

That one was the best one by far!

and they kept on asking

along after that,

whenever they'd shill, for a spare coin or two

always when they played, at the village saloon

and they'd take their breaks, to drink at the bar

whenever their wives,

stood by the door,

and asked for old clothes

their wives would implore:

Mister, do you still have that guitar?

Mister, do you still have that black guitar?

That one was the best one by far!

now when I come home,

I sit beneath the chestnuts

and I drink

I drink with my friends

who still call this home.

and nearly every night

to the table

they come

and play for us

with childish faces

and tremelous voices, They ask!

Mister, do you still have that guitar?

Mister, do you still have that black guitar?

That one was the best one by far!