Saving Was Slow And Painful.

If My Serenade Of Song And Story Should Serve As A Pillow For Some Composer's Head, As Yet Perhaps Unborn, To Dream And Build On Our Fond Melodies In His Tomorrow, I Have Not Labored In Vain.

Where The Tennessee River, Like A Silver Snake, Winds Her Way Through The Clay Hills Of Alabama, Sits High On These Hills, My Home Town, Florence.

With A Guitar I Would Be Able To Express The Things I Felt In Sounds.

The Name Of My Ailment Was Longing, And It Was Not Cured Till I Finally Went To The Department Store And Counted Out The Money In Small Coins Before The Dismayed Clerk. When I Came To The House, I Held Up The Instrument Before The Eyes Of The Astonished Household.

You Can Never Tell What's In A Woman's Mind, And If She's From Harlem, There's No Use O' Tryin