I play the blues
But I'm out of use
For years quite a few.
I strum some chord
And ask old Lord
"Will the magic return?"
Middle-aged man,
An old beer can
Signed for a fan
That never reached her.
She died in a crash
After my show.
She was my last fan
As in a real keen one
Who could jump with joy
When I glanced at her
In that good old bar.
Now alone I sing
A tring-ding-ding.
And I play a li'l bit
And all day I sit
Brooding if I can
Have just one more fan.
But I'm out of use
For years quite a few.
I strum some chord
And ask old Lord
"Will the magic return?"
Middle-aged man,
An old beer can
Signed for a fan
That never reached her.
She died in a crash
After my show.
She was my last fan
As in a real keen one
Who could jump with joy
When I glanced at her
In that good old bar.
Now alone I sing
A tring-ding-ding.
And I play a li'l bit
And all day I sit
Brooding if I can
Have just one more fan.
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