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The Guitar Music Maker


Crisp stringed cords on the old guitar, their plucking, stroking with such ease,

That guitar man is a one man band, his music making, all the time is to please.

Just sitting on the porch or in his studio, at night, takes life easy, you can see,

Playing a guitar song, the century long, He's been living all his life so very free.


Born in the South, master of the wild, swamp wise, in how to live off of the land,

Alligators watch from a distance, it's true, know to give a little room for this man.

Knows to survive, eats frogs and snakes, catching racoons, possums and such,

A little moonshine makes a cold night short, his way of life, not to cost very much.


Down in the Okefenokee Swamp, when the moon is full, and sits just right,

You can hear the sound of a sweet guitar, as it plays the Blues in the night.

The guitar man met his maker, his soulful spirit still lives among the pines,

Each refrain of Blues played there, carries on where the moon light shines.


Those guitar blues cords still heard there, on those bright moon lit nights,

Down on the swamp, amidst Spanish moss, and those aged cypress trees.

That old Blues guitar's spell, always sets the evening's mood so very well,

As its sounds are carried far and wide, there in the fresh air, by the breeze.


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