07 mayo, 2014

Johnny B. Goode



Way down in Louisiana close to New Orleans,
Way back up in the woods among the evergreens,
There stood a log cabin made of earth and wood,
Where lived a country boy named Johnny B. Goode
Who never ever learned to read or write so well
But he could play the guitar just like he’s ringing a bell.
Go, go,
Go, Johnny, go, go,
Go, Johnny, go, go,
Go, Johnny, go, go,
Go, Johnny, go, go,
Johnny B. Goode.
He used to carry his guitar in a gunny sack,
Go sit beneath the tree by the railroad track,
The engineers would see him sitting in the shade,
Strumming to the rhythm that the drivers made,
People passing by you know they’d stop and say,
“Oh, my, that little country boy sure can play.”
Go, go,
Go, Johnny, go, go,
Go, Johnny, go, go,
Go, Johnny, go, go,
Go, Johnny, go, go,
Johnny B. Goode.
His mother told him “Someday you will be a man,
And you will be the leader of a big old band.
People gonna come from miles around
To hear you play your guitar ‘til the sun goes down.
One day maybe your name gonna be in lights
Saying ‘Johnny B. Goode tonight.’ “
Go, go,
Go, Johnny, go, go,
Go, Johnny, go, go,
Go, Johnny, go, go,
Go, Johnny, go, go,
Johnny B. Goode.

1 comentario:

Alberto García Quirós dijo...
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