Hands Like His”
(Santana-style blues-rock ballad)
[Intro – Latin groove, clean sustained guitar riff over congas and soft organ]
Instrumental groove slowly builds as the memories come in like smoke…
⸻
[Verse 1]
He was just a kid, barely eighteen,
Hard hat dreams and worn-out jeans.
Built his life with wires and flame,
Taught me how to work, never seek the fame.
No ball games, no sideline cheers,
But he showed up in sweat through all the years.
Taught me trades, taught me grit,
How to bend the pipe and never quit.
⸻
[Chorus]
He had hands like his father, steady and worn,
They held hammers and hope the day I was born.
We built our world in dust and steel,
He never said much—but man, he was real.
And I carry that torch, through every plan I write,
Every kid I teach, every wire I fight.
If I ever made a life that’s true,
It’s from those hands I inherited the view.
⸻
[Verse 2]
We had our years, working side by side,
Laughing through the chaos, riding that pride.
Coffee in the van, boots on the floor,
Man, those were the days I still adore.
But time and words can build up walls,
A spark turns to fire, and silence calls.
And though we don’t talk, I feel his name,
In every lesson, he’s still in the frame.
⸻
[Bridge – Guitar solo with rising percussion]
A soulful lick rises like a memory—bittersweet, searching…
⸻
[Chorus – Repeat with more power]
He had hands like his father, rough but kind,
Held up the world, left nothing behind.
I wear his trade like a second skin,
Through every duct and every din.
I teach these kids the things he knew,
Every breaker box, every rooftop view.
And when I’m gone, if they stand tall,
It’s ‘cause I learned from the best of them all.
⸻
[Outro – Slow fade]
Maybe one day we’ll talk again,
Over tools and time, like father and friend.
Until then, I build and mend,
With hands like his—beginning to end.
stringham