Warped

The six strings on the wall Don’t mean a thing anymore The poster behind them Doesn’t remind me of Strawberry Fields anymore (or childhood car rides back from grandma’s) I know longer plug in my father’s old record player (Just to hear Fat City) But still every time I hear a melody without lyrics I make them up And they are always about you Or a girl like you, Names don’t matter It’s the thought that I will never change. It’s all because of you You’ve always liked my eyes But you’ve never tried to read them You’ve always laughed And I guess I look away Maybe it’s my fault, I just don’t want to stare. The neck is twisted But it has been that way for as long as I have had it My mother left it in the garage And let it find its own shape. But if I had a choice, I would have a straight neck. I would have new nylon strings. I would be at my full potential. Each string, Harsh when plucked, Doesn’t mean a thing to me anymore, And my Michael Omartian record may as well Be warped too.