The first time I saw it, it was hanging on the wall of the Old Town School.
It was a herringbone triple aught twenty-eight, man I thought it was cool.
Glued to the head, there was a little picture of Big Bill's face.
Some how, just knowing it was hanging there, livened up the place.

It was worn in all the right places.
It shown with a heavenly light.
I'd stare at it longingly, wishing it belonged to me.
I even dreamed about it one night.
'Cause I knew I could be a star
If just once I could play Big Bill's guitar.

It belonged to Big Bill Broonzy, he's a hero of mine.
It was the one he played on those records he made back before my time.
When he sang out against oppression, Jim Crow's nightmare.
It was the one he used when he played them blues that knocked me out of my chair.

There must have been something special in the strings and wood.
Maybe it was magic made Bill sound so good.
And I would pray to my wishing star
That one day I could play Big Bill's guitar.

Then one day I got my chance. I have an honest face.
They let me take it off the wall to a room down the hall in a chipboard case.
I played it for a while. It was light as a feather but still somehow
It didn't seem to sound any better than what I'm playing right now.

I know now that the magic wasn't in the wood,
It was in Big Bill himself, he'd make a chair sound good.
To this day, I thank my lucky stars
For what I learned when I played Big Bill's guitar.