| He worked from morning to 10 at night, sometimes 3 A. M
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| Fixing guitars for a living, honing and polishing frets
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| Perfecting the intonation and setting the action good
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| Carving saddles from ox bone, bridges from Brazilian wood
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| He fixed my old Gibson L-00
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| He reset the neck, used a patch of Bondo
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| Near the soundhole where the wood worn away
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| From 80 years of age and hard play
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| Sometimes he’d leave without warning and just close up shop
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| No sign, no message, no call, no nothing, he’d just stop
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| Coming to work and picking up the telephone
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| I left more than a few messages for him after the tone
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| All summer he wouldn’t return my calls
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| «Hey, Richard, I’d like my guitar back by fall
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| Got a record to make and a promise to bring
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| The tour in England, a smile to feign.»
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| September or maybe October he called and said it was done
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| I got in the taxi, got my guitar and man that thing sung
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| Like a choir of angels and the neck it felt great
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| And that was the last time I saw him, late 2008
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| Why Richard Collopy, why Richard, why?
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| Did you have to go off with the birds in the sky
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| You were the best guitar guy out west
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| I cherished your work and wish you the best
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| Why Richard Collopy, why oh why?
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| Did you have to lie down and close your eyes?
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| Close down your shop and not say goodbye
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| I’ll own this guitar for the rest of my life
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| I’ll play this guitar for the rest of my life
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| Why Richard Collopy, why Richard, why?
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| Why Richard Collopy, why Richard, why?
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| Why Richard Collopy, why Richard, why?
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| Why Richard Collopy, why Richard, why? |