Bad Guitar Player

He sat in there day and night
Like many a fine guitar player had
Strumming, guessing, playing, thinking
Only this one played all by himself
For himself
No love for any audience, future, present or past
He loved the sound of his pleasure
He was strange towards his pain
He didn’t want to express it
Just have you believe it was never there
Have himself believe the same
You could tell he was a bad guitar player
Because he had no rhythm
The foot stomps on the floor
And harpist’s hand across the strings
Gave only the bland
Not even a faint impression of the talked about music
His ignorance and vanity could not whisper a note

 

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