| Down the drain pipe cross the yard and through the fence
|
| I risked a whoopin' every time I went
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| 'Cause white boys weren’t allowed
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| On the colored side of town
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| But I was proud to call
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| That old black man my friend
|
| He had a pillow by the bed he used to pray on
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| And a beat up old guitar he let me play on
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| I knew where my fingers went
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| From his greasy fingerprints
|
| Yeah, he was passin' on
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| What was handed down to him
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| And it soaked up all the blood and sweat and teardrops
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| And the beers he missed in smokey little bars
|
| And sometimes that old man he comes alive in my hands
|
| I feel the beating of his sad old broken heart
|
| Just like there’s a ghost in this guitar
|
| A ghost in this guitar
|
| Well, the night before he died he made me take it
|
| He said, «You play it now, 'cause I gotta go»
|
| And I can feel him in my fingers when I play it
|
| 'Cause sometimes I’m in control
|
| And sometimes I just sit back
|
| And let him go
|
| Sit back and let him go
|
| (Repeat Chorus)
|
| Take a listen to the ghost in this guitar |