Each piece of ivory holds a piece of him...
|He doesn't play for the money,
though he used to.
He doesn't play for the glory,
albeit that would be nice.
He strokes the keys with thought,
the kind of thought that saddens.
Remembering his younger days,
he unwillingly summons memories.
The ballads that escape his mouth
please his paying crowd.
They're written from the heart of his pain.
He sings of longer days,
when tobacco and wine weren't his only lovers.
He plays with his eyes closed,
fingers moving on their own accord.
It helps him to picture what he wants,
and dream of what he had.