Wild guitars came from forests;
plainly, woodsmen share a calling.
Flailing noises form a chorus: harmonies of arbors falling.
And they play, say Conway, and ring, my girl sing,
and plead and beg and plead
and beg and plead and beg and plead and beg
to be heard and had and carried on.

Without us, song is nothing.
My wife turned crazy on me one day;
started chopping up the bed.
Looked past me with gaping eyes.
Left me too hard to be scared.
She left, but circled the yard.
All night she haunted the home.
The kids went crazy, life was hard.
The sounds of rings: boom.
And they play, say Conway, and ring, my girl sing,
and plead and beg and plead and beg and plead and beg
and plead and beg to be heard and had and carried on.

Without us, song is nothing.
I taught the children to play piano,
singing with sweet voice.
Music kept their mom away.
Melody fostered choice,
and choice brought us these days we have,
and choice brought us to our rejoicing.
Always choose the noise of music
always end the day in singing!

And they play, don�t they?
And ring, and e�erthing!
And bounce and boil and bounce and boil and bounce and boil,
and plead and beg to be heard and had and carried on.
Without us, song is nothing.