Steve Martin
Steve Martin
Steve Martin
Steve Martin
Steve Martin
Steve Martin
Steve Martin
Steve Martin
Steve Martin
Steve Martin
Steve Martin
Steve Martin
Steve Martin
Steve Martin
Steve Martin
Steve Martin
As he relates on his website, this song originated as a practice in writing what he calls “bad poetry”:
I had read a book called “The Stuffed Owl,” which was a collection of bad poetry through the ages. I put it down and thought, “I could write some bad poetry!” I did, and came up with a poem calle...
Daddy played the banjo, ‘neath the yellow tree
It rang across the backyard, an old time melody
I loved to hear the music, I was only five
I listened as his fingers made the banjo come alive
Sometimes I’d wake up at night, and hear a distant tune
The banjo would echo, ‘round my childhood room
I’d sneak down the back stairs, Daddy never knew
I’d grab a broom and make believe, I was pickin’, too
One day Daddy put my fingers down upon his fist
He picked it with his other hand, we made the banjo ring;
Now the music takes me back, cross the yellow day
Soon the summer’s with my Dad, and the tunes he made
But I’m just tellin’ lyes ‘bout the things I did
See I’m that banjo player who never had a kid
Now, I sit, beneath that yellow tree
Hopin’ that a kid somewhere, is listening to me
Daddy played the banjo, ‘neath the yellow tree
It rang across the backyard and wove a spell on me
Now the banjo takes me back, through the foggy haze
With memories of what never was, become the good old days