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That Black Guitar
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I was little Vlado then when the gypsies came a wandering, to our town they'd come by the house, and they'd start to play. and father would go, to his room, and pickup his guitar which he'd bought long ago with his paltry pay. Mister, do you still have that guitar? Mister, do you still have that black guitar? That one was the best one by far! and they kept on asking along after that, whenever they'd shill, for a spare coin or two always when they played, at the village saloon and they'd take their breaks, to drink at the bar whenever their wives, stood by the door, and asked for old clothes their wives would implore: Mister, do you still have that guitar? Mister, do you still have that black guitar? That one was the best one by far! now when I come home, I sit beneath the chestnuts and I drink I drink with my friends who still call this home. and nearly every night to the table they come and play for us with childish faces and tremelous voices, They ask! Mister, do you still have that guitar? Mister, do you still have that black guitar? That one was the best one by far!
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