[Authoress' Note: Ever seen the painting "Banjo Lesson"? Ese es para eso. It could be describing Sebastian, though. ]

Papa's hands are strong and coarse
A laborer's nails, a worker's palm,
But all the gnarled, toiling force
Goes out as they begin a song

They waltz and whirl 'cross the base
They dance upon the banjo strings
And Papa's voice fills up this place
Dark and sultry-sweet, he sings

I listen to the deep, warm sound
Upon his lap I watch and yearn
To be like him, to sing, astound,
I beg him teach me, beg to learn

He smiles broadly, laughing low
He takes my hand in his rough own
We strum a note, he taps his toe
In rhythm to the stumbling tune

He grins at me and nods his head
I grin back and try to muse
Out the same warm melody
He gave so coolly, saddened blues

We stayed in that rocking chair world
He kept me safe from splinters raw
And ran my hands across the chords
Remembering every note I saw

Now I am a man with a son of my own
And teach him well as so to keep
That music of my father's home
That music still, so ever-sweet