The Marks

THE MARKS
(Tim Stafford, Joe Newberry)

I sat there a while, Didn’t want to go in, finally opened the door of my car
Inside the church, there on a stand, my grandfather’s old guitar
The smell of the wood filled up the room, like so many times before
It was like he was saying I’m not really gone, but boy I can’t play
this box anymore


And inside it smelled like whiskey and tears, dust from dances and
cigarette ashes
old spice and gin and herringbone trim but mostly it smelled like him


So I took it home, held it up to the light, saw things I never noticed before
When I turned it over, I saw the mark of every belt that he ever wore.
The neck with its divots, like valleys and hills, old frets worn from play
the finish was cracked, and grain saw daylight, as close as the judgement day


And outside it looked like cradle to grave, dust from dances and cigarette ashes
A top paper thin, with spidery skin, so mostly it looked like him

BR) All the marks, proud battle scars, of endless nights in nameless bars
He left his mark on country boys and old guitars

And when I play it I hear whiskey and tears, dust from dances and
cigarette ashes
A long time to spend with a song that won’t end, and mostly I sound like him

TAG) I try my best to sound like him
Publisher : Daniel House Music, Newberry Songs (BMI)
Copyright © 2020, Tim Stafford | Joe Newberry