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written by Richard Ruane, copyright Okey Dokey Folkie Music (BMI)
George
was no connoisseur, but
he dearly loved his wine, not
a Cabernet, not a Pinot Noir, but
the wild Irish kind. George
was the man that everybody knew. You
couldn’t walk downtown without him coming up to you. He’d
have his hand held out, thinking ‘bout his wine, smiling
to your face and asking for a dime. Not
a wise old man. Not a wise old man. Not
a wise, not a wise old man. We
used to play our music out on the street, case
open, hoping for a crowd. As
soon as that case would have some coins, there’d
be George shouting out loud, “God
I love country music! Country music
never fails!” And
he’d stand there and sway, his
eyes fixed on our coins. Never
really heard what it was we’d play. George
broke his leg one icy December, got
stuck in the hospital, out of the freeze. Surrounded
by lights, white walls and the nurses, shouting
curses, went through his DTs. When
at last he got out, stark raving sober, dry,
straight, cured, he was sane. He
headed downtown, hand held before him, to
buy his friend back again. But
George was that man, the fixture, he was there. Better
known than our senators, congressman or mayor. He
never knew his burden of fame. He
never once kissed a baby, never learned a new name. And
I can still see him now on the steps of the courthouse, breaking
empties late in the night. Shouting
right back at those heckling frat boys, everyone
drunk and aching to fight. When
he died his picture was in the newspaper. They
ran him a front page obituary. No
matter how good I may be in this lifetime, they’ll
never do the same for me.
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