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Poem

In Nashville, all those tourists visit Broadway every day;
They buy those Dolly Parton posters there;
But the record shop of Ernest Tubb won’t seem the same no more—
Sing “Adios” to Ernest Tubb—he used to walk that floor.

Inside there’re old brown photographs displayed upon the wall
Of Jimmie Rodgers, and Roy, and Kitty Wells;
On his radio show he helped some kid name of “Elvis” get a chance—
Sing “Adios” to Ernest Tubb, and his Western-Country dance.

Across the street is Tootsie’s Lounge, where beer and memories flow;
Nearby, the Grand Ole Opry used to play—
Where “E. T.” helped Loretta face that famous microphone;
Sing “Adios” to Ernest Tubb—he’s the best friend Nashville’s known.

He was Lone Star lean and lanky, with a voice like Texas sand—
And he used electric guitars, `way back when;
Instead of wasting tears tonight, let’s everybody sing—
Sing “Adios” to Ernest Tubb…he made that dance floor swing.

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