FRED SMITH


Blue Guitar Lyrics

There is no law and order, in Honiara now. Maelunga up at the Rove had said the shit is going down. But the Walkers, in the corner, ain't here for playing cards, they said "boy, you'll be alright, you just play that blue guitar".

So I picked my blue guitar up, started playing slow, I had another heavy night again last night, you know. I was up 'til seven thirty, at the Tropicana Bar, playing Baby I Go to Rio, on my lucky blue guitar.

These small pacific towns all start to look the same; missionaries, mercinaries, playing their little games. Better a bashing with the bible, than the butt of an SLR. So they say, but either way I'd rather play my blue guitar.

SIPL plantations, yesterday went up in flames. See, the mining boys are asking if the candle's worth the game while the captain of the yacht club, lights his last cigar, says "the only thing still working here's that f**ken blue guitar".

They stole the TNT out of the Gold Ridge magazine, blew the Kakabono bridge out to the edge of smithereens. Packed each strut with fifteen kilos, set the det off from afar, snapped it like a string on my lucky blue guitar.

The White River Gang boys were delirious with fear. They were drinking pints of whiskey, and slamming shots of beer. When they moved on to the vodka they were toasting up the Czar, so I played the Volga Boatman on my lucky blue guitar.

Some old expat from the bar said "boy, you're guitar is not blue", I said what the hell you talking 'bout, who the hell are you? I hit a six off Dennis Lillee, and I clean bowled Gavaskar, this is the twenty seventh century, this here's a blue guitar.

My friend the bargirl Annalisa, she is uglier than sin, has an arse as big and wide as a yellow wheelie bin, her husband Clive is six foot five, weighs only seven stone, they say you oughtta here the racket when she's jumping on his bones.

Well I've been to many nations, caught many a fine disease, I've got a little dog named Sampson, with seven thousand fleas. The French anthropologist said "buy un flea collar", I said mercy on you soul, ma'am, she said "merci, au revoir". Jeu une autre chanson bleu sur ta chanceuse bleu guitare.

From the Bigfaet* hear the echo of the eight inch guns a pound, sending sailors to the bottom of the Iron Bottom Sound, in the evening see their spirits crawling up from the sand bar; they like to come ashore some nights to hear my blue guitar.

My friends, I'm going back to my homeland, I do believe it's time, go to work for Ashton Circus, toe the f**king line. Gonna get my shit together, just to watch it fall apart, 'cause my boots are made of leather and there's sorrow in my heart. My boots are made of leather and I cannot play the part. My boots are made of leather, and I've got this blue guitar.

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