| Young Johnny, I knew him
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| A meteor kid
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| So sure what he wanted to do
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| Every morning he’d say
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| «Mummy, I want to play
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| The piano, accordion, too»
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| And he played
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| And he played
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| On his grandfather’s rusting and rotting machine
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| His mother walked down
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| And bought from the town
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| The finest accordion you ever have seen
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| Young Johnny, he knew
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| In the old house beside him
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| Lived angry old Mrs McDuff
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| To improve his technique
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| He played six days a week
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| The neighbour thought one was enough
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| And he played
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| And he played
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| And Mrs McDuff, she would pound on the wall
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| But Johnny was proud
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| He was playing so loud
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| Above his own music heard nothing at all
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| Drove the old lady mad
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| Johnny’s dream of becoming
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| A piano-accordion star
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| 'Til her vindictive makeup
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| It led her to take up
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| The six-string acoustic guitar
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| And she played
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| And she played
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| Our boy couldn’t sleep; |
| on the wall he would pound
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| McDuff kept on strumming
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| Pretend he was drumming
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| A bitter guitar but sweet music she found
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| By playing, the players
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| They plagued the poor neighbours
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| By banging would retaliate
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| And too late late they found
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| That the great wall between them
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| Did not have the strength of their hate
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| The houses were gone
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| And from under the rubble
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| Two bloody musicians did climb
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| Where once was a wall
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| There was nothing at all
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| Side by side for the very first time
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| And they played
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| How they played
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| With her two broken strings and his dusty machine
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| They find that they are
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| The greatest guitar
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| And accordion band that there ever has been |