| The old man told his story
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| About the years gone by
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| How he played his horn down in New Orleans
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| In some old dingy dive
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| «I knew 'em all back then.» |
| he said
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| As he reached out for his horn
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| He closed his eyes and wet his lips
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| Then the blues were born
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| He played with so much feelin'
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| Tears came from his eyes
|
| He stopped and reminisced a bit
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| And then he gave a sigh!
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| Said, «You know, I almost made it
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| But that was before your time
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| Dixieland, Po' Folks Blues
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| ScatMan Jack and wine.»
|
| Slapped his knee and gave a grin
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| It sure was good back then
|
| Reaching for his horn on the floor
|
| Placed it in an old towsack
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| That hung across his back
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| He said «Goodbye!»
|
| And shuffled out the door
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| Enthused by what he told me
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| I never got his name
|
| So, I called the waitress over
|
| And started to explain
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| A tired old man — his tarnished horn
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| Mem’ries of years gone by
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| How he played his horn and reminisced
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| Smiled with tear-dimmed eyes
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| She said you are mistaken
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| There’s been no one but you
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| But I know who you’re talkin' 'bout
|
| I used to know him, too
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| You’ll find him down on Basin Street
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| In back of an old churchyard
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| A stone that reads, «Rest in Peace»
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| I tried but it sure was hard."
|
| Slapped his knee and gave a grin
|
| It sure was good back then
|
| Reaching for his horn on the floor
|
| Placed it in an old towsack
|
| That hung across his back
|
| He said «Goodbye!»
|
| And shuffled out the door |