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Poem

“Do you know just how old this guitar is my boy?”
quizzed the old man I’d grown to revere.
It was plain as the nose on his kind, smiling face,
and the fact that his heart beat had picked up the pace,
he’d a story he felt I should hear.

“We were all church mouse poor back when I was a lad
and my pappy he never had much.
But the one thing pa owned and did treasure the most
was this long necked guitar, and it’s not wrong to boast,
how that man had a magical touch.

He would work hard all day with his hands in the fields,
but at night he would gather us ‘round.
Then our Pa he would play to us kids and to ma,
and those calloused old hands brought to life this guitar,
which created a rhythmical sound. 

But the years took their toll on this musical man
and my pap gave the playing away.
To this day I recall, with a real sense of pride,
how he whispered to me, as he took me aside, 
“This guitar son is yours now to play.”

How it brought me such joy through these many long years
and I’ve played at a dance hall or two.
It has taken me places all over this land
and I’ve played with musicians in many a band
but it’s time now to hand it to you.

There’s a lot of tradition and pride to uphold
and I know you’ll respect that my lad.
Please remember my pappy and me when you play
and then maybe my boy you’ll be sure to one day
tell this tale when you too are a dad.

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