My Grandpa sold pianos,
Not exactly from a store,
It's what they used to call,
Selling door to door.
To state it more precisely,
Though that description does no harm,
He'd crank up his old Model A,
And sell pianos farm to farm.
In those days, farmers' contacts,
Were few and far between,
So he was warmly greeted,
In his newfangled Ford machine.
Not only was he into sales,
But, as a one man operation,
He made deliveries, as well,
And played at any provocation.
One free beginner's lesson,
Came with each piano sold,
And mail order music courses,
Could be bought by each household.
He did piano tuning,
And went back every year,
For a fee, he'd tune them up,
Which he always did, by ear.
Sometimes he handled trade-ins,
And re-sales, he would do,
I heard he'd done some auctions,
And had held some raffles, too.
The man was pure genius,
When it came to piano sales,
Blest both with charm and honesty,
There was no way he could fail.
On the door of Grandpa's Model A,
Hung a sign in black and white,
It read, "JONES - THE PIANO MAN,
SERVICE - DAY OR NIGHT."
Where he ever got that sign,
Is anybody's guess,
Jones was not our family's name,
Nor the street for our address.
My Grandpa never had much,
Because he gave everything away,
Not a selfish bone within him,
And The Golden Rule was his mainstay.
He was a very special man,
As free and easy as they come,
He never stewed or fretted,
Nor did I ever see him glum.
The kind of man he was,
You don't often see today,
His time and place was yesteryear,
And that era's passed away.
But, in my mind, I see him still,
In that old black sedan,
His sign hanging from the window,
"JONES - THE PIANO MAN."
I don't suppose God's golden streets,
Could handle his old Ford,
But, for sure, he's selling angels,