The Last Notes of One Eye Joe

hip hop, funk, funeral dirge/brass-band funeral

+ Show full styles

Now he plays for ghostly dancers in the shadows of the night,
Ancient spirits tap their boots beneath the pale moonlight.
His fingers chase a ragtime tune that death could never steal,
In Silver Creek saloon... where only the dead should hear!

When the jealous fire was burning hotter than July,
He called that old gunslinger out beneath the desert sky.
In the street by Murphy’s saloon, the clock struck half past ten,
He reached to draw but drew too slow ... and never moved again.
As the life slipped through his fingers and the gray fog filled his eyes,
He watched her take the winner’s arm and fade beneath the night.
The very last thing that he saw.... her dress of baby blue,
Disappearing in the darkness with the man whose aim was true!

Now the doors still swing and whisper though no living soul walks through,
And the barkeep keeps on pouring drinks for patrons he once knew.
There’s a gambler at the corner, chips stacked neat and high,
And a dance hall girl still waiting for a cowboy’s last goodbye.
They all crowd ‘round the piano when the midnight chimes are near,
To hear him play the ballads of those long-forgotten years.
Though Silver Creek lies empty save for dust and desert wind...
The ragtime of that dead man plays on, in a world without end!

Still he plays for ghostly dancers in the shadows of the night,
Ancient spirits tap their boots beneath the pale moonlight.
Sometimes he spies a figure... in the corner, dressed in blue,
But when he looks up from the keys, she vanishes from view!
His fingers chase a ragtime tune that death could never steal,
In Silver Creek saloon.... where only the dead should hear!

So if you find yourself in Silver Creek when the desert wind blows cold
And you pass that dusty saloon with its stories left untold
Listen close and you might hear a note or two drift by
From the ghost who plays piano 'neath the starlit desert sky"

2607/7500

Down in dusty Silver Creek where tumbleweeds would go, Lived a man with flying fingers and a restless soul. Every night at Murphy’s bar he made that old piano sing, While gamblers cut the cards and the midnight bell would ring. She was pretty as a postcard, hair of shining gold, But her heart was with a gunman... cruel and icy cold. And the ivory keys kept laughing though his heart was torn in two, ‘Cause he knew he’d lost his darling in her dress of baby blue! Now he plays for ghostly dancers in the shadows of the night, Ancient spirits tap their boots beneath the pale moonlight. His fingers chase a ragtime tune that death could never steal, In Silver Creek saloon... where only the dead should hear! When the jealous fire was burning hotter than July, He called that old gunslinger out beneath the desert sky. In the street by Murphy’s saloon, the clock struck half past ten, He reached to draw but drew too slow ... and never moved again. As the life slipped through his fingers and the gray fog filled his eyes, He watched her take the winner’s arm and fade beneath the night. The very last thing that he saw.... her dress of baby blue, Disappearing in the darkness with the man whose aim was true! Now he plays for ghostly dancers in the shadows of the night, Ancient spirits tap their boots beneath the pale moonlight. His fingers chase a ragtime tune that death could never steal, In Silver Creek saloon... where only the dead should hear! Now the doors still swing and whisper though no living soul walks through, And the barkeep keeps on pouring drinks for patrons he once knew. There’s a gambler at the corner, chips stacked neat and high, And a dance hall girl still waiting for a cowboy’s last goodbye. They all crowd ‘round the piano when the midnight chimes are near, To hear him play the ballads of those long-forgotten years. Though Silver Creek lies empty save for dust and desert wind... The ragtime of that dead man plays on, in a world without end! Still he plays for ghostly dancers in the shadows of the night, Ancient spirits tap their boots beneath the pale moonlight. Sometimes he spies a figure... in the corner, dressed in blue, But when he looks up from the keys, she vanishes from view! His fingers chase a ragtime tune that death could never steal, In Silver Creek saloon.... where only the dead should hear! So if you find yourself in Silver Creek when the desert wind blows cold And you pass that dusty saloon with its stories left untold Listen close and you might hear a note or two drift by From the ghost who plays piano 'neath the starlit desert sky"

0/500