The Martin Box.

The Martin Box.

The Martin box, it sang it's song
Of sadness to me,
Of the many hands it laboured for
And the songs that set it free.
It watched the dancers, saw the crowds,
They helped it to be
The muse that kept you playing
And brought the music to me.

Sing me Church Street
Blues once again
Want to see the light on Charlotte Street
Turning red in the rain.

The Martin Box was strung again,
Old Black Diamond brand,
Cut the air with its chiming ring
Bringing pleasure to the land.
We'll never play quite like you,
But we all understand
You kicked away your rockin' chair
And took that Martin from his hand.

The Martin box spits pickin' fire
Down upon the crowd
A sweet storm of fretted notes
Spin across the ground.
I watch your fingers catch and burn
Controlling every sound,
Runnin', riffin', strummin', flingin'
Licks all around