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The Musical Yoke of my Youth ©

In response to a request, and a belated nod to my Dad.

Danny Reynolds
Dalton in Furness, England

Ma Faither’s face wiz a picture,
As I left the hoose that day,
His wee golden boy wiz goin up the toon,
He’d gave me the money tay pay.
Every Da wants to be proud o their son,
And hopes that wan day they’ll go far.
Ma Da wiz happy tay share ma big grin,
As he bought ma first decent guitar.

I must have gone roon every shop in the toon,
And tried every axe I could see.
I think the assistants were getting pig sick,
“Don’t even think o` playin. 'Blowin Free!'”
Les Paul copies, look-alike Strats,
The odd replica Telecaster.
And aw the time, ma poor wee spine,
Wiz fixing a course for disaster.

For shining oot, like the Holy Grail,
I could hear ma brain scream, “Flippin Heck!”
On the back wall of McCormacks, hung,
A big red C.S.L. Twin-neck!
One neck had twelve strings, the other had six,
“Huv a seat son. Why don’t ye try it?”
Why did I bother, tay plug it in?
I’d already decided tay buy it!

On the journey back, I took some flack,
Folk shoutin`, “Oi, mind whit yir dayin!”
Fur me and my twin-neck, manoeuvring wiznay easy,
And we took up four seats on the train.
I must admit, the case wiz right posh.
Aw lined wi fake velvet an that.
Wee dookits fur strings, and polish and things,
Aye, I felt like the Cream wi the cat?

Ma Da gave a wee knowin` smirk when he saw it,
“Are ye sure son, noo this is the 'One?'”
Coz he knew, sittin doon, it wiz comfy to play,
But stonnin up? It soon weighed a ton.
Sure enough, before long, I had traded it in,
For a lighter one, which cost him a packet,
Chuffed that one o` his boys,
Made a musical noise,
Which in truth, then as now,
“Whit a racket!”

Cheers Faither. Don’t reserve me a harp up there! I might be standin in wi the “Fireside” band when it’s time!

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