Piano Player In Rotgut's Saloon

“Go west young man”, the neighbors said; but they wisely stayed at home. From pianoforte to pianoforte, saloon to saloon, town to town I roam. Surrounded by Phillistines, “soiled doves”, cowpokes, and dullards, Gamblers, dealers, dance hall girls, and other assorted drunkards. If a fellow’s feeling generous, he might leave something in my jar, Or even offer me a drink of the “good stuff” behind the bar. I guess my fortune can be made where folks are hot, dry, and thirsty, Playing sad songs on old pianofortes that are musty, dusty, and rusty. I grew up playing Beethoven, Chopin, Bach and Wagner. The only songs these cretins know are all by Stephen Foster. A gambler in a pink silk shirt once asked for a Franz Lizt tune. I was so surprised, I fell off my chair, to the amusement of the room. The “faded rose” smells like a horse, and looks the worse for wear. But if a few more drovers buy me beers, I probably will not care. If I should wake up next to her, I won’t know what to say. But she’ll just pretend to be asleep as I quietly slip away. Through hazes I might recognize a face; or maybe they all look the same. But in town’s like Rotgut, last night’s best friend won’t remember your name. I hope someday, somewhere I’ll find a good pianoforte in tune-- But that’s something I’ll probably never find in a one-street town saloon. If they don’t happen to catch my name, “Eighty-Eight Fingers” will usually do; That’s all any of them remembers anyway, after they’ve had a few.