old Johnny, the guitarist and his sickly daughter...

The night was unholy, chilly one
The old man felt in his wakeful state
His fingers were kind of numbed
And he felt he was running late...

The moment he finally arrived
To the tavern where he always went
He was recharged seeing the crowd
To the music as they swayed...

He took up his guitar
And his plectrum triangular
On the fretboard then ran the fingers
To spread his hot hot spitting fire...

The crowd got into the act
Of breaking into a freakish mood
And Johnny, the old guitarist,like a fact...
Just on the platform sternly stood...

The crowd bust into joy
Of unfathomable eerie kind
Johnny bled his fingers, O boy!
To spread the best of music they could find...

But in one corner of Johnny's mind
There was a distressing thought
He had left his sickly daughter
On her tiny, cold, old cot...

He wished always to go back
To his daughter with pale face
He wished to get sacked
From his guitar-job, such a damn stress!

But how could possibly he
From his odd job suddenly flee?
The bucks were the need for him
To brighten his darling's life so dim...

So old Johnny just jammed
In the air, his white locks rammed
Knowing well how he was sold-
For  few bucks...to ward off the diseased cold!


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