It`s 3:00 am in the morning
air smellin like Chanel No.5.
You kick your boots up,
and pull out your guitar-
and then I`ve got that bass on my mind.
That rocky hard deep bass,
sugar salt sweet bass; the bass that won`t leave my head.
The bass that`s probably still sitting on the living-room floor,
and that I`m planning to throw out in the shed.
The bass that Gramma played like fire. Evoking deep sounds into the wind. Until, irritated, I told her,
to shut up -the old crow!- breaking a bond that won`t mend.
I hate myself now.
I hated myself then.
Want
to go apologize, make it right.
So I slink off from my exile,
bare feet on the cold tile,
I can`t do this! I`m not gonna win.
She`s been in the living-room for
awhile, cigarette ashes in a pile.
She shocks me when she cracks a grin. "At last, you came!" Gramma says. "Thought I was going to have to go to bed!"
And she hands me that bass again.
I start to cry, for every reason why- but there`s nothing to say.
So all there is to do is grab that bass, and sit down on the couch and play.