Gather round me people. Come listen to my song.
I'll sing to you a story. i 'll not detain you long
About a guitar player whose name you all should know.
I heard that he had chosen life, but i guess he had to go.
Named for a jazz musician, he grew up with the blues.
His soul was full of rock n' roll from his tee shirt to his shoes.
He could sing you any country song that you might care to know.
I heard that he had chosen life, but i guess he had to go.
I'm dreaming of the music. Tonight i am thinking about the man
Remembering the friends and times spent listening to the band:
Outside of Boston Music Hall, it was December of seventy-one
When he stopped to smile and talk with me after the show was done.
I don't go courting tragedy nor look for sad lament.
The only thing i know for sure is what was here just went
And the song that he was playing; it's all we've left to show.
I heard that he had chosen life, but i guess he had to go.
Now out near San Francisco hills are turning brown.
The bus is in the junk yard. The circus has shut down;
But up near Haight and Ashbury i swear i hear an old banjo.
I heard that he had chosen life; but i guess he had to go.
r.i.p. Jerry.
