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In a little cabaret in a South Texas border town, |
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Sat a boy and his guitar, and the people came from miles around. |
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And all the girls from there to Austin, |
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Were slippin' away from home and puttin' jewelery in hock. |
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To take the trip, to go and listen, |
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To the little dark-haired boy who played the Tennessee flat top box. |
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Well, he couldn't ride or wrangle, and he never cared to make a dime. |
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But give him his guitar, and he'd be happy all the time. |
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And all the girls from nine to ninety, |
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Were snapping fingers, tapping toes, and begging him: 'Don't stop.' |
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And hypnotized and fascinated, |
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By the little dark-haired boy who played the Tennessee flat top box. |
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Then one day he was gone, and no one ever saw him 'round, |
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He'd vanished like the breeze, they forgot him in the little town. |
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But all the girls still dreamed about him. |
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And hung around the cabaret until the doors were locked. |
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And then one day on the Hit Parade, |
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Was a little dark-haired boy who played the Tennessee flat top box. |
