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Bass Ackwards
Bass Ackwards / Uanel Sualokin Big GrinBig GrinBig Grin

Three gypsies in a willows’ shade
I saw enjoying the weather,
as my hansom wearily made
ruts through the gorse and the heather.

The first one had, to humour a whim,
gotten a grip on his fiddle,
and in the sunset, haloing him,
played fiery tunes for a diddle.

The second with a pipe in his mouth,
mused on the spiralling smoke,
as regal as any king from the south,
instead of eternally broke.

The third one on the ground just slept,
his cymbal high up in the tree.
Over the strings a zephyr swept,
a dream in his heart to set free.

The clothes they wore were a sorry mess,
holes and patches around them,
that stated to all nevertheless,
no destiny ever bound them.

Threefold the gypsies taught me that day,
whenever one’s life gets too blighted,
to play it, to smoke it, to dream it away,
and thrice to despise and deride it.
Never sigh for a better world it`s already composed, played and told

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