Well, I quit my job down at the car wash,
left my mama a good-bye note.
That Sunday night left Kingston with my guitar under my coat.
He tracked all the way down the mountains,
got a room at the YMCA.
For the next three weeks,
I went hunting on night clubs,
looking for a place to play.
Well, I thought my piano would set him on fire,
but nobody wanted to hire a guitar man.
Well,
I nearly bought sob to death down in Memphis,
running out of money luck.
So I bought me a ride in a make of Georgia,
holding over loads of bones and trucks.
I thumbed on down to Times Square to start picking up
some of the mall night bars.
Hoping I could make myself a dollar,
making music on my guitar.
I got the same old story from the mall night peers.
There ain't no room around here for a guitar man.
So
I slept in the Hobo jungles,
running fast on the ice of the track,
till I found myself a moonbeam out of my mouth.
The club, they called me Jacks.
A little four-piece band was down,
and so I took my guitar and I set in.
I showed them what a band would sound
like with a swinging little guitar man.
Guitar man.
If you ever take a trip down to the ocean,
find yourself down in Brownmobile,
making a knock to the club called Jacks.
If you got a little time to kill,
just follow that round of people.
You wind up on old Lee's dance floor,
drinking a pint of Phil's five-piece booze,
popping on the go from Mexico.
I guess he was leaving that five-piece band,
wouldn't you know?
And that swinging little guitar man.
Swinging little guitar man.