We used to play this honky-tonk, Sunday evening jam--
It was amateur night at the Round-Up with all the local hams.
This one old guy , he'd come in—I guess there's one in every town—
He could sing like Waylon Jennings, but I swear he couldn't count.

He knew five chords and a shuffle beat and that Folsom Prison lick,
Which he'd throw in whenever he felt like it, whether or not it fit.
Like everybody who got up on stage, we tried to make him sound good,
but, boy, we'd have to watch his hands real close and follow along as best we could.

He'd bring this skinny old gal along; she never said a word.
She just grinned a toothless grin and loved up everything she heard.
He'd amble in with a cardboard case that he kept in his beat-up car.
With bashful pride he'd pull it out—a Three Dollar Guitar.

Three Dollar Guitar, Sears & Roebuck brand.
It sounded like a Gibson in his big old calloused hands.
Orange sunburst archtop, cracked and warped and scarred.
been halfway to hell and back, that Three Dollar Guitar.

He said he got it from a hobo back in 1949
for what it cost for a flophouse room and a jug of rotgut wine.
He learned every damn Hank Williams song, the Lowdown Lonesome Blues,
Johnny Cash and Elvis and Carl Perkins' Blue Suede Shoes.

The tuning pegs were worn out and the bridge was outta whack,
Black Diamond strings on a neck like a baseball bat.
It was a cool old ax though, and somehow he managed to get some incredible tone.
He loved that three dollar guitar like a dog loves a bone.

I always teased him about it, said, "Hell, I'll give you six!"
"Oh no," he said, "I wouldn't sell this old guitar for a pile of golden bricks."

It's a Three Dollar Guitar, Sears & Roebuck brand.
It sounded like a Gibson in his big ol calloused hands.
Orange sunburst archtop, cracked and warped and scarred.
been halfway to hell and back, that Three Dollar Guitar.

We held on to that gig for about two years and for a couple a months there at the end
We kept looking for the old guitar guy but he hadn't been coming in.
Then one night his old lady came in just as we were packing up to go home.
She had that Three Dollar Guitar with her, but otherwise she was alone.

"Where's that crazy old man of yours? We missed him." I halfway lied.
She said he got sick last fall and then last week he died.
"Oh no," I said, "I'm sorry." and I felt like a wanted to cry.
I never would have thought that ol picker could ever die.

She said, "He wanted you to have this old guitar of his, he said you understood—
You're the only one who ever admired it and he knew you'd treat it good."

So now I've got a Three Dollar Guitar, Sears & Roebuck brand.
It sounded like a Gibson in his big ol calloused hands.
Orange sunburst archtop, cracked and warped and scarred.
been halfway to hell and back, that Three Dollar Guitar.

Well the years have passed and the band broke up and now I just play for fun.
But I pull that old guitar out sometimes and I give it a loving strum.
I try to play some riffs and scales, but all I can ever git
is five chords and a shuffle beat and that Folsom Prison lick.

It's a Three Dollar Guitar, Sears & Roebuck brand.
It sounded like a Gibson in his big ol calloused hands.
Orange sunburst archtop, cracked and warped and scarred.
been halfway to hell and back, this Three Dollar Guitar.