He couldn't make his fingers play Like they used to anymore But he couldn't keep from singing Country songs From an old pocket spit toon And a rummaged sale guitar He made himself a dobro So that he could play along He couldn't hold the slide So he taped it to his hand And he'd play for me a song From long ago I'd hear it come alive As I listened to him sing Nobody ever played them Quite like my good friend, Joe Just an old dobro Laid across his knee Joe, won't you play A song for me He couldn't write a letter So talked to me on tape Then he'd pick a few And talk to me some more "Billy Clide," he'd say, "Since you're so far away, I'll sing for you a song Like the ones we played before." Just an old dobro Laid across his knee Joe, won't you play A song for me That was thirty years ago Those tapes are getting old My how the years Have passed me by My hiar's turned to grey My friend Joe's passed away And the echo of his dobro Brings a teardrop to my eye Just an old dobro Laid across his knee Joe, won't you play A song for me